


Slipped Inside Your Left Front Pocket

by compo67



Series: Back Pocket Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alpha Jensen, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Explicit Sexual Content, Fat Shaming, Fatphobic Remarks, Flashbacks, Food, Inspired by Music, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Model Jared, Musicians, Nightmares, Omega Jared, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scent Marking, Sequel, Slice of Life, Songwriting, songwriter jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-10 05:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 33,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15284670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: Seven years ago, Jensen met singer, actress, and all-around legend Cher in a Manhattan lounge called Intime. After he played a set, she approached him, impressed, and they hit it off. With her guidance and connections, Jensen started to create a life outside of his job as a 911 dispatcher for the NYPD. He didn’t have to ask clubs to let him play; they started to call him to play for them.Two years later, Jensen had to leave the city. He had to get out. And out meant back to Texas. When his cabbie got lost on the way to LaGuardia, he wandered back to Intime. Cher offered him another place to go.Jensen arrived on a remote island in the South Pacific five years ago and never left.Life was as steady as the ocean and as slow as a turtle named Diego. Until Cher sent her nephew to the island as part of a creative restart.Then everything changed--possibly for the better. [Completed 2018 J2 Big Bang.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> SUPER THANKS to: G, D, T, J. My most excellent betas who stayed up with me at weird hours of the night to work on this. Thank you. <3
> 
> Thank you to my artist, Dollarformyname, who created the beautiful artwork for this fic. We did it!
> 
> Thank you to readers, for taking a chance on this fic. I encourage y'all to read this with an open mind. Comments are love. <3

**Prologue**

Queen recorded seven albums at Mountain Studios in Montreux, Switzerland--part of the Casino Barriere de Montreux. Some of their most famous songs were preserved for history here. Freddie recorded the lyrics to their final album, Made in Heaven, with instructions that the band finish the songs after he died. 

It remains one of Queen’s best-selling albums. 

Freddie Mercury was a perfectionist to the very end when it came to recording. He craved control of every note, pitch, tempo, and rhythm. Even towards the end of his life, he insisted on recording and rerecording songs until it sounded right. The efforts exhausted him. Vodka helped keep his spirits up as he battered against his body, trying to hit the right notes.

Fans and press constantly swarmed Freddie, but it was beyond overwhelming in the early nineties as his health started to decline. Montreux had been Queen’s favorite recording studio; they bought it in 1978. It made sense to return to it for whatever Freddie could record for Made in Heaven. They had their privacy, the people of Montreux knew the band, and everyone felt comfortable.

Changes in the music industry have also changed the way recording studios function. Many have fallen into disrepair, leaving behind only the music recorded there. Montreux is surprisingly small when it comes to recording studios. The space, with its stone-clad walls, focuses on creating intimacy and peaceful escape. 

Brian May and Roger Taylor restored Montreux. Many of the fixtures and equipment are as they were when Freddie commanded the space. Visitors can stand in the exact same spot as Freddie did when he recorded the last lines of “Mother Love” in 1991. 

Montreux was the only space that could adequately and faithfully capture Freddie’s vocal range--down to every rough growl and formidable vibratos. 

Jensen sits at the piano in the village’s town hall and continues to practice--he switches from improv to “Dreamers Ball” to something or other by Mozart and back to Queen. Diego patiently listens and provides good company.

All Diego ever needs is a slice or two of cucumber. Jensen cut a few up for him, but for now, it seems that Diego is happy enough to sit atop the Yamaha and feel the vibrations through his shell. 

Mozart. Queen. Mozart. Queen. Ellington. Rachmaninoff. Gershwin. Schubert. Queen. Mozart. Queen.

Empty pages of sheet music stare back at him. 

Diego tries to chew on a sheet, his small head bobbing slowly forward. Jensen gently redirects him to the slices of cucumber that should taste much better than sheet music. 

He can try to sing--Jensen, not Diego. Though if Diego does start singing, he will have to start supplying his own slices of cucumber and carrots. Jensen pets Diego on the head, then picks up a pencil. 

Something like the beginning of a song emerged out of a dream last night. Jensen feels the basic idea of that something, but hasn’t had any luck writing it down or playing it on the Yamaha. It’s been about ninety minutes and the creative spark eludes him. Earlier this morning, he tried playing on the guitar, the drums, the saxophone, and the harmonica just to see if maybe his instinct was wrong about the piano. But nothing happened. He was no closer to the ethereal song on any other instrument, so he circled back to the Yamaha. 

While the village’s town hall isn’t exactly Montreux, Jensen has always been able to create in this space.

Tinges of gospel music flit through Jensen’s mind. Humidity from the island’s impending summer season curls around the nape of his neck, as seductive and heavy as the trumpet he can almost hear. Fingers on the keys, Jensen closes his eyes. There might be some jazz here. Just a touch. Or maybe a lot. 

The tempo feels bright. It sparkles. He presses down on the keys with more confidence and the music produced finally, finally sounds more like the scraps out of his dream. Breathing gets easier. Honesty pours out from the tips of his fingers to the smooth, spruce keys of the Yamaha. Sound becomes salve. 

Jensen has always loved music--anything and everything about it.

Every hazy, heady harmony.

Notes begin to appear on the first page of sheet music. Jensen balances writing with fine tuning the sound and trying his best to commit the idea to muscle memory. He could spend the rest of the day this way, going back and forth between page and piano. There should be a part--maybe right here--with a guitar, but one that sounds like a cello. And the guitar should use a Deacy amp, not a Fender, for the right amount of distortion. 

It would be a great tribute to Queen. John Deacon created it from a bunch of parts he found in a dumpster. Maybe it’d be good to use a twenty-four fret guitar.  

This is his Montreux. Private, secluded, quiet.

Until Cher’s nephew, former model, creatively frustrated musician, and current island transplant bursts in and shatters it all--privacy, seclusion, and quiet.

“THEY PUT A LIZARD IN MY HAIR!” 

Even Diego reacts quickly to that.


	2. Chapter 2

Summer starts in April on the island.

Geckos wander throughout the forests and typically stay there, though sometimes they find themselves picked up by an errant child and brought back to the village as pets or…

“Hold still,” Jensen grumbles and grabs Jared by his slim shoulders. “If you don’t hold still, you’re either gonna hurt yourself, me, or the gecko.” 

Despite his ten weeks on the island, Jared still looks every bit like a New York City runway model. At six foot two, he cuts a dramatic figure wherever he goes. However, Jensen has spent a great deal of time around Jared since their first meeting. Jared carries himself in a way Jensen finds intriguing, and also sometimes irritating. 

Presently, Jared’s face scrunches up in a mixture of tears and rage. He’s a long way from his posh apartment in Chelsea, as is the gecko a long way from its forest floor, so it’s understandable that they’re both seized with fear. 

The gecko--a small, beige little guy with scaly toes--grips onto Jared’s hair in terror. As a model, Jared is more distressed than the average person by the idea of a lizard stuck in his hair. At least, that’s how Jensen chooses to view it. 

Jared arrived to the island about ten weeks ago. He happens to be related to Jensen’s mentor and friend, which happens to be the legendary singer/actress/philanthropist Cher. She decided, in her infinite Cher-wisdom, that her nephew needed a creative restart. A respite from the pressures of the New York City music industry. Time to discover himself as a musician and young person.

In other words, Jared tried to record an album and it sucked.

Cher refused to back it without a major overhaul.

She acknowledged that it was all easier said than done, but then again, she trusted Jensen to help her nephew create a new album with quality music. Also in her infinite Cher-wisdom, she tapped Jensen to help him acclimate to the island and its residents, bring him closer to something like a community instead of a clique.

As far as the reptilian or amphibious residents of the island, Jared has been able to tolerate Diego--the friendship has been slow, but that’s to be expected from both parties. 

Jensen slowly extends his hand towards the wayward gecko. As he leans into Jared, he catches the scent of sunscreen and floral shampoo. “C’mon, buddy, climb over.” 

“Don’t talk to it,” Jared hisses. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. It’s not eating my hair, is it?!” 

In a deadpan, Jensen replies, “Not unless you’re growing bugs in your hair.”

“Jensen!” 

“Sorry! Relax. It’s not doing anything but trying to stay safe. If you throw him off, he’ll die. Not everyone’s lucky enough to have a shell like Diego.”

“I… can… feel it… on my head…” 

“Well, let’s just be thankful it’s not on your ass.”

Miwa should look at this gecko. He’s small, but very intricately patterned. He might be a mourning gecko, but his toes are bigger and overall body is flatter. Jensen often spots geckos frolicking around in various gardens throughout the village--his own included--but the geckos are smart enough to stick to the forests. Cats, dogs, and children aren’t much of a threat there. Somehow, this guy wasn’t so lucky.

With the end of the wet season, folks have been setting up outdoor umbrellas and fans. It’s possible someone disrupted this gecko’s perch, then he gained the unwanted attention of village kids. 

Jared arrived in the middle of March, almost at the end of a not-so-wet season. The island hadn’t had too much rain and the temperature was warmer than usual. Cher told him to stay for six weeks. 

It is now the second week of May--coming up on ten weeks. 

Maybe extracting a gecko out of Jared’s hair is an omen for the summer. What kind of omen, Jensen has no idea. He’s never had to coax a gecko away from human hair. 

“Okay, you can stand down,” Jensen announces and cradles the confused gecko in his hand. “The threat has been eliminated, it is now in custody. You may return to your efforts to look more like a circus peanut.” 

There’s no point in responding to Jared’s shrieks about how A) his skin isn’t anywhere near the color of a circus peanut, B) there. was. a. gecko. in. his. hair., C) children are horrible and cruel and they should be severely punished, maybe all of their iPhones should be locked up for the rest of the year, and D) THERE WAS A GECKO IN HIS HAIR.

The second Jared’s shrieks downgrade to sharp, pointed ramblings, Ji Su pokes in. Jensen can see Tomas hiding behind her. They probably played rock paper scissors to determine who would be sacrificed. 

With all the confidence an eight year old can muster, Ji Su asks, “J-Jensen, can we play piano now?” 

“Yeah, of course. Can y’all do me a favor? Find Miwa and ask her to stop by.”

“Okee, be right back!” Ji Su shoves Tomas towards the village square and the door to town hall once again closes. 

Jensen heads back over to the piano. 

Flip flops echo behind him. “Don’t put it near Diego,” Jared insists. “It’s probably got ulterior motives. Ugh. Where can I wash my hands?”

“Did you actually touch it or did you just scream about it and run in here?” Carefully, Jensen places the gecko on the opposite side of the piano, away from Diego, who doesn’t seem to care. The gecko tries to run off and disappear inside the piano; Jensen cups his hands around it to create walls. 

A picture of pretty, Jared perches on the piano bench, his back to the keys, and looks over his shoulder at Jensen. He heaves a dramatic sigh. “I presented you with a problem and you fixed it. I guess.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“My tan doesn’t look like circus peanuts.” 

“No, Jared, it doesn’t.”

“Good.”

Before Miwa arrives to rescue the gecko and comment on the complexities of species diversification on island systems, and before Jensen gives piano lessons to two eight-year-olds, he leans a little closer to Jared. Now that the excitement and terror created by the gecko have worn off, Jensen can pick up a now familiar and evocative scent--a combination of Kona iced coffee on a hot day, the first day the hibiscuses bloom, and rich, clean sweat infused with Coppertone sunscreen.

Jared looks back at him, hazel eyes sparkling in the light of the piano. 

“You should kiss me,” he murmurs and licks his lips. “And cut class early.”

Those aren’t bad ideas.

They kiss in front of two reptiles--and two eight-year-olds who go, “Euw!” 


	3. Chapter 3

Freddie Mercury joined Queen in February of 1971. 

Queen recorded their first album in 1972, but they didn’t achieve commercial breakthrough until 1974 with “Night at the Opera.” Before this, they were struggling to make money. After dumping their first label, they turned to Peter Grant--manager for Led Zeppelin. He instructed the members of Queen to tour, however, Queen worried he’d spend all of his time promoting and working with Zeppelin and they’d come back to nothing. 

Ultimately, they signed with John Reid, Elton John’s manager. He instructed Queen to get back in the studio and make an album of unsurpassed quality. 

After that, Queen made four albums in three years. 

All four members of Queen worked together on each album and made their own contributions. Freddie stood out as the frontman, but the songs wouldn’t have worked so well without Brian May’s guitar, John Deacon’s bass, and Roger Taylor’s drums. All of them could and did sing. It wasn’t just one voice or one person. Take away one member of the band--one component--and the rest would miss an elemental piece. 

Brian May’s studies in physics helped Queen create the best recording of “We Will Rock You” by using non-harmonic reverberation--all based on his knowledge of sound waves and distances. The distances were all prime numbers. 

It takes more than one person to come out with an album that uses multi-layered overdubs, harmonies, and varied musical styles--all of which Queen did together.

Music is a human art. 

Jensen learned how to read sheet music by the age of four. His parents enrolled him in music school by the age of six. Over the years, he learned how to play the piano, guitar, violin, drums, harmonica, trumpet, harp, cello, and bass guitar. The saxophone remains one he’d like to learn. He was going to start it up six months ago, but life threw something different at him instead. Someone loud. Someone frenetic. 

Someone loudly complaining to the village’s unofficial official matriarch about how kids put a lizard in his hair while he was trying to get an even tan in the village square. 

“I told you not to tan there,” Jensen says with a sigh and a smile. He helps Ma serve dinner. 

“I still want revenge.” Jared sits at the table, perched on a chair, his hair tied back. “Swift, merciless revenge.”

Dressed in a bubblegum pink house dress, and in her evening slippers, Ma shoos away Pogi, the poodle her daughter Div brought home two weeks ago. It was a somewhat successful effort to give Ma another outlet to focus her love on. There are limits to the love that Div can withstand from her mother. Nothing Div does can go without comment or question. 

Jensen remembers when Div asked to be called Div and not Divina; Ma wept and insisted that what, was the name she gave her oldest daughter not good enough? Was she ashamed of the name, her culture, or God forbid, her mother? 

In the Philippines, Ma and her husband owned a hole in the wall grocery store and restaurant. When they moved to California with their oldest son in tow, they opened up another store. 

Deportation, however, changes people. The family left the States shortly after Div was born and settled here, where Ma vowed never to get involved with running a grocery store or restaurant again. She focused on her children, some of whom still live with her and Danilo, like Div and her sister Raina. 

But her children spend less and less time at home--and Danilo plays dominoes in the village square for hours every day without fail.

So, Div decided it was either give her mother a dog or a newborn grandchild.

The dog won.

Jared eyes Pogi--distrustful still of any dog on the island, despite Pogi being the exact opposite of Percy, the ornery poodle in Mrs. Park’s shop.

“Eh, eh, not for you. I feed you later.” Ma places a giant bowl of arroz caldo in front of Jared and expects him to immediately dig in and praise her. 

Jared hesitates. “I can wait for…” 

“Hoy! Ay mali sa aking pagluluto?” Ma snaps and tugs on his ponytail. “Something wrong with my cooking?”

“Nothing’s wrong with your cooking,” Jensen assures Ma and serves her, then himself. “Umupo. Sit.” He points a spoon at Jared. “Eat.” 

“I was being polite,” Jared whines. “Wait, can I have an extra egg?” 

Jensen places a hand on Ma’s shoulder in an effort to prevent her from getting up to meet the request. However, she escapes and rushes back to the stove top, then comes back with two extra eggs for Jared. Jensen shakes his head and finally sits down to eat. Ma offers up a prayer and takes both their hands to do so. Jensen offers his hand to Jared, who looks uncomfortable for a split second. He pushes past that and not only takes Jensen’s hand, but squeezes it. 

To think, they were strangers three months ago. 

After the prayer, Jensen digs in. He learned long ago not to wait for Ma to issue the okay. She doesn’t care if people take a few spoonfuls before prayer. It shows enthusiasm for her cooking. 

Sighing happily, Jared almost melts in his chair. “This is amazing. So amazing that even though it’s a million degrees outside, I’m in freaking love with this soup.” 

“Caldo in summer is good,” Ma chimes in. She sneaks a piece of chicken to Pogi. 

“What’s in it?” 

“It’s more like a porridge,” Jensen explains and passes the bread basket over to Jared. “You take chicken, should be bone-in, and boil it with rice in a ginger-based broth. Then we’ve got onion, garlic, and fish sauce. Topped off with crispy garlic and boiled eggs.” He looks to Ma for approval in his description.

She nods and pats his hand. “I think you got it right. Tastes good.” 

“All I did was help stir,” Jensen says with a small laugh. “But I took notes.”

“Good for colds,” Ma tells Jared. She then looks back at Jensen. “You look pale. You need more caldo, mahal.”

Jared tries to get a good look at Jensen with this new Ma-information. “Oh my god, you’re right, he does look pale. Here. Eat another egg.” 

Jensen smiles, amused by different yet similar displays of concern. “I’m fine, y’all. I just spent a lot of time indoors today. Not something I usually do.” Jensen switches to Tagalog for Ma, but follows up with English for Jared. “Tomorrow, I’ll get more work done outside. Mrs. Yee asked for me to take a look at her garden.” 

Before Ma or Jared can provide him with their opinions, Div appears in a noisy whirlwind of cymbals and the stomp of her boots. She’s working on growing her hair out in order to make a decent mohawk. She huffs as her bangs get in her face. Roberta, village hair stylist, chopped off all sixteen inches of her black, wavy hair coming up on three years back. It changed Div’s life. Though Ma may remember that differently. Then there was the nose ring. And the blue hair. Then the lip ring. Div became five feet four inches of her mother’s worst nightmare.

Pogi yips, attempting to help by contributing more noise. Jared stands up and takes one set of cymbals from Div’s arms. Ma stands and assumes the position of simultaneously lecturing and serving up a bowl of caldo. 

“Ma, I ate already,” Div mumbles, trying to move around Pigo. “Dali made…”

“Ah! So that’s where you were? Eating! And here we are…”

“Also eating! Yo, Jay-man, help me take these out to the backyard.”

“It’s fine,” Jensen breaks in and takes the cymbals from Jared. “I got this. I didn’t know you were buying new ones.” 

“I wasn’t gonna, but Taki made me a great deal. Besides.” Div winks at Jensen. “I wanna play a killer set for your anniversary party.” 

Jared doesn’t sit back down, but he does pick up his bowl of caldo and continue eating. In slurps, he blurts out, “What? What anniversary party? Why… was… I not informed?”

Faster than an avocado going from ripe to rotten, Ma snaps at everyone to stop what they are doing and sit down. They can horseplay later. Pogi barks in agreement and jumps into Div’s lap the second she takes a seat. Div sighs and sets him back down, only for him to stand on his hind legs and whimper. She gives in.

“I thought Jensen would have told you,” Div answers and eats a spoonful of caldo under the watchful gaze of Ma. “We have one every year.”

Jensen thinks back to last year’s party. “It’s not so much a party as it is everyone comes over to my place and eats.” 

“Right, but this year,” Div adds hot sauce to her caldo, “is gonna be the shit.” 

Ma swats at Div and speaks in rapid fire Tagalog and islander. “E centes etant de litio!” 

“Mils baven sage sait le dit endres arrina, Ma!” 

“Cassal que sover o a se etiena.” 

“Fine,” Div grumbles. “Ma wants to have the party here this year.”

“Too many people,” Ma adds with a grumble and a wave of her hand. “Our backyard bigger.”

“Okay,” Jared says, finished with his caldo. “But why hasn’t anyone told me about this?”

“Probably because you keep lizards in your hair,” Jensen quips and goes back to eating his caldo. “Here is just fine. I’m still working on the fountain, so I have stuff everywhere.” 

Jared gasps and places a hand on his chest. “First of all,  _ Jensen _ , it was one, large, grotesque lizard! Second of all, how dare you. Third, is this the anniversary of your decision to become a jerk?” 

“It’s Jensen’s fifth year on the island,” Div laughs. “Also, Kim told me about the lizard in your hair. She said she heard you scream all the way from the docks.”

“It was a HUGE lizard!” Jared turns back to Jensen. “So when were you going to tell me about this? When’s the party? I need time to prepare. I’ll call Michel tomorrow and see if he can ship out eclairs. How many people are we talking? Maybe I should just ask him to fly here and make them. If it’s next month he can’t, he always goes to Milan this time of year, which honestly, is  _ such _ a mistake because it’s nothing but tourists. Jensen, quit laughing at me!” 

Remove one component and the whole thing falls apart. 

Jensen didn’t even know this component had been missing. 

He stands, picks up everyone’s bowls, and answers. “It’s next weekend. No one needs to make a big deal out of it.” 

As soon as that last sentence comes out of his mouth, he knows that the three of them, and possibly Pogi, are already working out exactly how to make a big deal out of it. 


	4. Chapter 4

Ma sends them home with leftovers. 

She packs Jared and Jensen their own separate leftovers, but only gives them one canvas tote bag to haul them out. Before they leave, she tells Jensen, in Tagalog, “You and him take care going home.” 

Jensen’s cottage isn’t secluded and out of town like the one Cher rented for Jared. 

Within incredibly observant circles of the village, it’s no secret that Jared stays the night at Jensen’s with increasing frequency. Jared blames it on the rising temperatures on the island; it’s too hot to walk all the way back to his place. 

Not that Jensen owns a Jeep and could easily drive him back or anything.

They tend to fight over pillows and blankets. Jared enjoys hoarding both, but in the middle of night he will shove all the pillows onto Jensen’s side and curl up into an impenetrable ball of blankets. He owns more hair and skin products than Jensen has counter space in the bathroom. And Jared whines if, after sex, he’s made to sleep in the damp spot or anywhere near it. He insists on knowing the thread count to each set of new sheets Jensen uses and leaves his clothes everywhere.

Yet he hums so sweetly on their walk from Ma’s to Jensen’s.

The island language takes pieces of Italian, French, Portuguese, Tagalog, and Spanish, and mashes them all together. Immersion helps pick it up. Languages have always been easy for Jensen. His memories of speaking only one language feel distant and blurry in his mind--he prefers it that way.

It feels good to move forward in time, away from the past. 

Little by little, he shares words with Jared.

“Levue tone vide,” he murmurs. 

Jared walks beside him, their steps in sync. “Levue tone vide.”

“Maiteva-tes que crovue pres.” 

“Maiteva-tes que crovue pres,” Jared echoes.

“E bottei coa que sesa che-segno irog.”

With a laugh, Jared shakes his head. “You lost me. You gonna tell me what any of this means?” 

Lanterns hanging on front porches bring out the honey highlights in Jared’s hair. The cobblestone sidewalk beneath them stretches out like a beloved quilt. Fireflies signal their dreamy, milky presence in the distance. Flowers and plants add a perfume to the air that heralds the start of another summer.

Bird’s nest fern. Blue quandong. Paper gardenias. Beach cherry. Black mangrove. Plumeria. Heliconia.

Jasmine.

Jensen picks a single jasmine flower--as white as the foam on a cappuccino. He stops walking, reaches over, and tucks it into Jared’s ponytail. 

“Irog,” Jensen says, his pronunciation careful, his emphasis purposeful. He thumbs Jared’s cheek. Jared closes his eyes and leans into the touch. 

The flower sways as they continue their walk.

It’s an improvement over the gecko.

Jared says so himself.

 


	5. Chapter 5

After stashing their leftovers in Jensen’s fridge, they start to turn in for the night. Jensen sets up the Mr. Coffee for the morning while Jared supervises.

Jensen listens to Jared talk about the rest of his day. Ideas for songs or album artwork. Random hypotheticals about the music industry and modeling gigs. Jensen lingers in the bathroom while Jared begins his nighttime routine of creams and solutions from fancy pants bottles. 

He thought he’d find Jared’s continuous company to be exhausting. Instead, it’s been oddly exhilarating. 

Once in bed, Jensen pulls out a red notebook and starts to work.

He picks up his favorite pencil and half-listens to the sound of Jared’s nighttime classical music playlist.

_ Song 1A for Artist J.T.E. _

_ New West Records  _

**Hair** up high and seat reared back/ 

Looked like she should be  **driving** something  long and  black /

All I’m asking  **you** /

Brother , do you  **know** her?/

Pretty little thing driving **riding** by in a **champagne** Corolla/

[no break, lead in]

I’ve seen you around here [quick] just-last-night/

Today she been by two [or] three times/

Ain’t you  **listening** to me/

Lord, I  **done** told  **you** /

Pretty little thing riding by in a  **champagne** Corolla/

[no break, drums pick up]

I asked the  **boys** on the corner/

Did they know how many them things 

you think is out on the road/

Did they know how many them things you think is out on the  **road** / [fit this together]

The one I mean/

I  said? \-- **say** if you seen her you know her/

Pretty-little-thing riding by in a  **champagne** Corolla/

[break, cymbals]

I-don’t-care what no man  **say**

She-can-run-all-week-on just  **one** tank/

Goes to show  **you** /

Maybe  **baby** got a head on her shoulders/

And she sure looks cool **sweet** driving by in that **champagne** Corolla/

[no break, lead in]

I know every man think that he need some high tone woman/

Something built for speed/

[soft, fast] But-you-can’t-trust-a-rich-girl/

No farther than you can  throw her/

[quick] LE LS/

[quick] GE GT/

Don’t mean one  **damn** thing to me/

Just get me something that will get me where I’m  **going** /

[drums here]

So **help** me/

I’d  get on jump on inside if she would  **have** me/

All she got to do is give a little  **tap** on the  **shoulder** /

And I’d ride away with the girl in the  **champagne** Corolla/

And I’d ride away with the girl in the  **champagne** Corolla//

Jensen taps his pencil against the notebook and absentmindedly chews on his bottom lip. Can he quickly get in a few edits for another song? Judging by Jared’s progress at the sink, Jensen figures he can work on another song. This’ll put him ahead of schedule.

He turns a few pages and settles on a song he’s been working on for the past two weeks.

_ Song 2A for Artist S.M.  _

_ Island Records _

[piano]

All it’d take is  **one** flight/

We’d be in the same time  **zone** /

Looking through your timeline/

Seeing all the rainbows/

**_I_ ** got an idea/

And I know that it  might be sounds  **crazy** /

I just wanna see  **ya** /

**Oh** , I gotta ask/

[lead in]

Do you got plans  **tonight** ?/

I’m a  **couple** hundred miles from Japan, and  **I** / 

I was thinking I could fly to  **your** hotel tonight/

‘Cause  **I-I-I** can’t get you off my mind/

Can’t get  **you** off my mind/

Can’t get  **you** off my mind (oh)/

I could feel the  **tension** /

I  We could cut it with a  **knife** /

I know  we’re it’s  **more** than just a friendship/

I can hear you thinking ‘bout it,  **yeah** /

Do I  gotta  convince  **you** ?/

That you  **shouldn’t** fall asleep?/

It’ll only be a  **couple** hours/

And I’m about to  **leave** /

[lead in]

Do you got plans  **tonight** ?/

I’m a  **couple** hundred miles from Japan, and I/ 

I was thinking I could fly to your hotel tonight/

‘Cause  **I-I-I** can’t get you off my mind/

Can’t get  **you** off my mind/

Can’t get  **you** off my mind ( _ oh _ )/

[overlap, lead in]

Do you got plans tonight?/

I was  **hoping** I could get lost in your  **paradise** /

The only thing I’m  wishing for  thinking about is you and I/

‘Cause  **I-I-I** can’t get you off my mind/

Can’t get  **you** off my mind/

Can’t get  **you** off my mind/

Let’s get lost  **tonight** /

Let’s get lost  **tonight** /

Babe  Baby, you and I/

I can’t seem to get you off my mind/

[repeat 2x]//

“Okay,” Jared announces, wearing a crimson silk robe that hits right around mid-thigh. He stands at the edge of the bed, his voice soft and dark. “You can do more than kiss me now.”

Jared climbs into Jensen’s bed. 

Jensen makes a few more notes.

And turns out the light.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Through action, taste, and scent, Jared reminds Jensen that this doesn’t have to be complicated. 

Jared devotes attention to Jensen, just like the night before and the night before that. Jensen works to return the attention, his gaze unmistakably hungry with their sweep over Jared’s body. 

It can be simple. 

Jensen can lay down everything connected to creating a verse, a chorus, a bridge, an intro, a coda, or an instrumental solo and step away. Nothing more for the night. No tonic chord or dominant chord or stock turnaround progression. Just his hands, mouth, hips, and instincts. 

Only the warmth shared between bodies.

Jensen pulls Jared in close. His runs his hands up Jared’s back and shoulders. Jared demands kiss after kiss; he bites down on Jensen’s lower lip while he grinds the tip of his cock against Jensen’s middle. 

It took a year for Jensen to learn the island language. 

Accorqua va dante des dave so. Il nits barmaggi deita sui che cos. A cito papiori fieris arrina mailla. Signo umerio ao ilhama. Je refinit volo o cesta si. A lesver de’ i rune a va bra. Ma quella, chose le pugue a me.

Adirche coltri denira.

Moonlight and crisp midnight air from the open window filter in. 

Eyes closed, Jensen takes a deep breath and exhales as Jared escapes his immediate touch. He shudders the second Jared’s mouth lands on an incredibly desirable place. Nothing holds Jared back; he goes all in to blow Jensen. Pink lips seal over Jensen’s cock, purrs and moans follow soon after. 

Everything narrows down to Jared’s warm, wet mouth and throat. 

Reaching behind himself, Jensen holds onto the headboard. He digs the heels of his feet into the mattress to keep his hips from thrusting. Fuck, Jared can give head. 

This is almost like music. Lick. Swallow. Lick. Swallow. Suck. Lick. Suck. An indulgent moan. 

Jared keeps his hands on Jensen’s thighs, but he slips his right hand to the base of Jensen’s cock. He gives a firm squeeze to Jensen’s knot and suddenly, his lips bump up against the curve of it. 

Jensen lets out a laugh and a moan. 

“Don’t,” he pants and stretches out. “Unless you wanna unhinge your jaw.”

It’s difficult to complain with a mouth full of cock, but Jared somehow manages--he uses his teeth. Jensen growls and rolls his eyes. 

After another minute, Jared pops off, breathless and frustrated. He rubs his jaw line and glares. “Don’t say shit,” he huffs. 

“I…” Jensen melts, words crumble. Jared straddles his hips and presses the tip of Jensen’s cock against the inside of his wet, sticky thighs. The scent of it--sugary sweet--drives Jensen to change their positions. Jared yips in surprise, but he yields with a soft, inviting gasp. 

Simple. It doesn’t have to be complicated. It can be simple.

Jared lies underneath him, spread out, ready, and slightly impatient.

Perfect.

Jensen lines their hips up. 

And he gives Jared what he wants all at once--enough to make Jared shake and shout. Jensen buries his cock inside Jared, all the way to the knot, in one punchthrustpush. 

“Fuck it,” Jared begs, “fuck it, fuck it, fuck it…” 

Jensen draws his hips back, pulls out, looks down, and groans at the sight of his cock covered in slick. He pushes back in and relishes the messy squelch, the pressure, the gush, the drag and the stretch. Jared drags his fingers over Jensen’s forearms, nails digging in, and cries out when his body responds with another wave of slick. 

It’s all for a reason.

Simple. It can be simple. It is simple. Jensen does what instinct and desire tell him. He pounds into the tight, soaked space offered up. Muscles in his hips and thighs work together to make sure Jared feels every thrust like an echo. Jensen doesn’t let Jared forget any of it, he fucks him hard, rough, and raw--a reminder that there’s more. 

So much more.

Jared whines, whimpers, and begs. 

Heat and sweat builds between them. The bed creaks. Jensen leans down, kisses Jared, then kisses his neck and inhales deep. 

He knots Jared slow. 

Ques et si. Quella core, voni pon bient brame. Dales. Ondi. Ondi. On--

“Coming,” Jared says with a tortured gasp. “I’m… oh fuck… don’t stop, don’t stop…”

Jensen bites down on his bottom lip. Milky, overflowing warmth saturates his cock and knot. Jared’s cock spurts at the same time, and covers Jensen’s middle in thick strings of come. It’s a flood and Jensen knocks down the dam. He grinds into Jared, his knot expanding, and leans his weight and muscle into every movement. 

Jared tosses his left arm over his eyes. With his right hand, he maintains a death grip on Jensen’s forearm. He doesn’t complain when Jensen fucks him into a second orgasm. And then a third. With a sob.

Jensen presses his forehead against Jared’s chest. 

Then he grabs onto Jared’s hips, pulls him up into his lap, brings their mouths together, and comes. 

Jared clings to Jensen, screaming all kinds of words, and comes again at the pulse of Jensen’s knot filling him up with come.

Jensen gropes Jared and holds his hips down. 

His knot and cock work with searing intensity. 

Simple. It’s so simple. It feels so good to come inside Jared.

And even long after, once he safely pulls out of Jared, it feels good to see the deluge of his come drip out onto the bed. It satisfies something in Jensen’s chest to see that and the wrecked, wrung out state of his partner. 

Jared doesn’t have the energy to complain about sleeping in the wet spot; he knocks out and snores almost immediately.

Still.

Jensen cleans them up.

He falls asleep soon after.


	7. Chapter 7

E quelle dii quirava soglie mae foro.

E quelle dii quirava soglie mae foro.

E quelle dii quirava soglie mae foro.

I can’t get you off my mind. 

I can’t get you off my mind.

I can’t get you off my mind.

Tourue jetta peraca ettoro?

Tourue jetta peraca ettoro? 

Tourue jetta peraca ettoro? 

Do you got plans tonight?

Do you got plans tonight?

Do you got plans tonight? 

Jensen wakes up at five in the morning to write down lines.

Then he curls up against Jared and falls back asleep for a few more hours.


	8. Chapter 8

Mrs. Yee keeps an extensive garden--almost half an acre in size. 

She plants and grows anything that will respond to the soil. Leafy greens, herbs, melons, nuts, roots, sprouts, squash, beans, yams, coconuts, pineapples, and sugar cane. 

And wall after wall of sunflowers. 

Jensen arrives shortly after nine. He had to make stops along the way, including one to fill up the Jeep and another to drop Jared off at his cottage. Mrs. Yee emerges from her home, dressed in denim overalls and a large yellow sun hat. Seventy-two and a half years old, she gives Jensen a light punch on the arm and thanks him for helping out. 

“Maybe you want to look at the gate when you can?” She carries one watering can in each hand as they walk on the stone path to the gardens. 

“Squeaking again?” 

“Yes. The cherry tree seems to be having a difficult time.” 

“Ah, it could be a long dry season.” 

“Yes. I think so.” She stops at a large section of grass kept plain for simplicity. It adds harmony and balance to the rest of the garden. A lawn mower rests to the side, ready to go for the first cut of the season. However, Mrs. Yee stands beside it, hesitant to leave Jensen to it. She speaks in Korean, her words as simple as the grass. “I don’t mean to keep you from other tasks.”

With a smile, Jensen sets down a pair of newly sharpened mower blades. He answers in Korean, though his words don’t sound as clear as hers. “I’m happy to be here. Let’s have a good time.” 

Half an acre of land keeps Mrs. Yee busy throughout the year. Once a month, Jensen wrangles the kids together and has them help her lift some of the heavier equipment or do the more labor-intensive chores. He’s been cutting the grass in this section once a week since December to encourage a healthy result. Last week, he managed to find teenage volunteers to help put down long-term fertilizer. 

Now that it’s summer, Jensen will only have to mow the grass every other week. Cutting it too short could cause it to lose all its nutrients. 

After mowing, Jensen moves onto preparing beds for the season. He works on redefining the edges on some beds, then improving light cultivation on others. The heat makes him grateful for wearing a sleeveless shirt--and for the large glass of sujeonggwa Mrs. Yee brings out before they tackle testing soils and moving around sprinklers. 

Quietly, as they work side by side, Mrs. Yee talks about buying dakkochi on the street corner in her hometown. Watching students in a hurry devour cup toast because they didn’t have the time to eat breakfast. Making piles of gimbap with her mother; it was her job to roll each piece without breaking the seaweed or spilling rice. Waiting for jjinmandu to finish steaming. Watching for her favorite tteokbooki vendor to pass by. 

“I will bring a plate to your celebration,” she promises, switching to English. “And chapssaltteok. You can share with the newcomer.” 

Jared blew kisses to Jensen this morning.

And invited him over for dinner at his place. 

It was such a ridiculous gesture. Still. Jensen chose not to ignore the flutter in his chest created by that gesture. Just like he chose not to hide his smile when he discovered a post-it note with a heart scrawled on it, stuck to his tool box in the back of the Jeep.

Reality sets back in when he notices that the soil pH for the melons is low. He sets to fixing it and asks Mrs. Yee what she thinks of the newcomer. 

After a moment, in Korean, she replies, “He is change.” 

That sounds about right.

 


	9. Chapter 9

While he loads his tools and supplies back into his Jeep, ten year old Lil’Cara approaches Jensen. 

She holds two paletas in each hand, one mango and the other strawberry, and she looks like she escaped from the watchful eye of her grandmother, Roberta. 

Eagerly, she holds up the paletas. “I like mango, but you can have it if you want, Jensen.” 

“Strawberry is my favorite,” he answers and kindly takes the offered paleta. “It must be hair day, huh?”

Lil rolls her eyes and nods. Half-finished twists of her curly hair bob as she moves. “Gramma at it again. She’s gonna pull my hair out.” 

“Hmm.” Jensen leans against the Jeep, grateful for the cool treat. Midday heat presses against every pore on his skin. “So that means any minute now she’ll be looking for you.” 

It feels good to rest for a moment before moving onto other errands, chores, and appointments. He takes in the block, notices the shift in seasons by the number of folks who have moved more and more outdoor furniture onto patios and driveways. Mr. Han and his oldest son work at installing a swinging chair on the front porch. Palm trees, bushes, and flowering plants sway with the help of an appreciated breeze.

“I mean, yeah,” she laughs and expertly climbs the Jeep to stand next to Jensen. “But it wouldn’t be so bad if you sat with me and Dali.”

On cue, Dali rounds the corner, her own hair half-done. 

The Bronx lives on in Dali’s voice. In her four years on the island, it has never left. Hearing her voice reminds Jensen of 149th and Morris. As she warns Lil’Cara of her grandmother’s mood, Jensen feels as if he might as well walk one block over and step into Yolanda’s Restaurant and Pizzeria. Then maybe head over to La Isla to pick up pernil for dinner. He’d take care on the sidewalk while walking on 149th, because fuck if the city’s gonna patch it up. Maybe the CVS still carries ninety-nine cent lighters. He’d ignore the Dunkin Donuts completely in favor of ice cream from Carvel’s right up the street. With any hope, they’d still have banana fudge in stock for a couple of scoops on a waffle cone.

Dali hugs Jensen. She smells like coconut oil and vanilla. Jensen knows that the coconut oil is a result of prepping for hair day and the vanilla comes from a swan-shaped glass perfume bottle on her nightstand. It belonged to her grandmother and every year or so, Dali ships in a refill and pours it into the bottle.

Her grandfather moved from Spain during the time of Franco. On his way, he stopped in Cuba, where he met Dali’s grandmother. She keeps a black and white picture of them in her wallet. 

They passed away fifteen years ago, here on the island.

She took time off from her job as a children’s librarian working out of the Bronx Library Center on Kingsbridge to visit. Their house was hers. She thought maybe it’d make a great vacation home. Maybe she could fly out twice a year. Maybe she could rent out the house.

None of that ended up happening.

“And you,” Dali quips, hands on her hips. The tattoos on her arms shine in the sun. “You’re just an accessory, huh?” 

Jensen shrugs and smiles. “I suppose so.” 

“He’s gonna sit with us,” Lil asserts and jumps off the Jeep. 

“So if Jensen sits with us you’ll sit still?” Dali playfully tugs on one of Lil’s unfinished twists. “I thought we were in this together? All black girl magic and stuff.” 

Lil twirls, her pink sandals a bright contrast against the street. Her matching pink dress billows with her movement and the soothing breeze. “We  _ were _ until you and Gramma started talking about boring things like bras. C’mon, Jensen, you can listen to my biology essay.” 

“That’ll be so much more entertaining,” Dali sighs but smiles. “I’m short and I got boobies for days. Getting a new bra takes a degree in physics and engineering.” 

Jensen checks his phone and figures he has about half an hour of time to spare between jobs. 

He greets Roberta with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, as she prefers and insists. His presence ensures only a mild scolding to Lil for running off in the middle of hair time. 

“Girl, now I gotta spray your hair again,” Roberta grumbles and shakes her head. “When you gonna learn to sit still. This don’t take but a minute.”

“It takes foreveeeeeerrrrrrr!” 

“It takes forever if you don’t sit still and let me finish. Jensen, I got some kimchi fried rice and chicken, let me get you a plate.” Before Jensen can respond, Roberta shuffles out of the living room and into the kitchen. She comes back with a plate and a glass of cold water, then sets to twisting Lil’s hair. 

Dali sits next to Jensen on the lavender sectional, while Lil sits on a stool with Roberta behind her. 

“We were talking about the best places to buy bras near the Bronx,” Dali says and stretches. “Goodness, where’d we leave off?” 

“I’m telling you,” Roberta murmurs, securing sections of Lil’s hair with clips, “there was a bodega on 143rd that sold the kind I like.”

“Nah.” With a shake of her head, Dali holds her hands up. “I was up and down 143rd for years and never did I see a bodega that sold bras. Especially not bras up to the challenge of containing these.” She points to her chest. “I bet you’re talking about the one closer to Morris.”

“This is boring, so boring,” Lil whines but doesn’t dare move in such a way that would interrupt Roberta’s work. “Jensen, I don’t even have boobies and this is all they wanna talk about.”

Jensen laughs and elbows Dali. “I think it is a little unfair.”

“Sure, take her side because she gave you ice cream.”

“Listen to my biology essay! Gramma, let me…”

“You stay put where you are. And it wasn’t on Morris, it was on 143rd. Near the hospital.” 

After a drink of water, Jensen tells Dali the name of the bodega. “It was decent,” he says, setting his plate on his lap. “But I liked Brito’s better. Though, you know, I wasn’t in there looking for bras.” 

“Don’t know why anyone needs to be wearing a bra when it’s so hot anyway,” Roberta proclaims. 

“Brito’s had a good egg and cheese,” Dali sighs. “And I can’t not wear a bra. Lord help me if I tried going without one and I had to run.”

Jensen finishes his plate and politely declines a second helping. “What’s with the Bronx talk?”

Lil pipes up. “Dali said there are sooo many more flavors of ice cream in the Bronx than there are at Tito’s. An’ Tito just got  _ two  _ new flavors!” 

“Which brings him up to five,” Dali quips. She flashes a smile at Jensen. “You wanna tell her how many flavors there are at Carvel’s?” 

Dali and Jensen didn’t know each other before the island, but it feels like they did when they talk about New York. The same happened when Jensen met Roberta, who moved here ten years ago to raise Lil. Both Roberta and Dali speak the same language of boroughs, street intersections, and bodegas. 

The three of them were the only New Yorkers until Jared arrived--a whirlwind of Manhattan energy.

“There’s one called Peanut Butter Treasure,” Jensen explains, relaxing into the couch. “And Toffee Latte and Maple Walnut and Orange Pineapple and Cake Mix and Chocolate Praline Pecan.” 

Roberta laughs and finishes Lil’s twists. She pats Lil’s shoulders; Lil and Dali switch places. “And Peach Marshmallow. That was my favorite. And the pistachio soft serve, that was mm-mm-mm.” 

Dali closes her eyes and smiles. “Tiramisu soft serve was my favorite.”

“Pistachio,” Lil groans and makes a face. “Yuck. Jensen, will you listen to my biology essay? Please?” 

“If you can read it in ten minutes. I told Mr. Yeun I’d stop by soon.” 

Faster than ice cream melting in the island sun, Lil darts off to her room. Roberta glances over at Jensen. “How you been? Good?” 

“Pretty good,” Jensen replies, trying but not trying to hide a smile. “Busy.” 

“He says busy,” Dali laughs. “But he means  _ busy _ .” 

Roberta’s hands pause their work sliding clips into Dali’s hair. “I remember being young and  _ busy _ .” She shakes her head and starts back up. “C’mon, give us some juicy details before I gotta listen to that biology essay for the millionth time. Ma tells me she sends Div to check on Blue Steel and he’s never there.” 

“Never there?” Dali whistles and grins. “But if he’s not there, where could he be?” 

“Mm-hmm, that’s what I’m saying,” Roberta murmurs. “Though I’m not sure I trust someone who gets paid to stand there for pictures--from Manhattan.” 

Dali hands Roberta a clip. “He is pretty snooty, Jared is.” 

“And skinny. I like a man with some meat.” 

“You know he lives in Chelsea,” Dali loudly whispers. 

“That don’t surprise me, no it sure does not.” 

Jensen groans, but also laughs. “Was I supposed to share information? Or did y’all wanna just talk about Jared in front of me?” 

Roberta flashes a smile. “I also heard, from very reliable sources, that wherever you are, he is. Like on the hikes with the kids and at piano lessons.”

“I think Jensen’s also less grouchy.” Dali looks at her nails. “And I see some major heart eyes happening.” 

“Ooh, that’s true. He’s got them right now.”

“Of course he does, we’re talking about him and Jared k-i-s-s-i-n-g.” 

Lil bursts back into the room, biology essay in hand. “Who’s kissing?!”

“Jared and Jensen,” Dali announces. 

“Why would anyone want to kiss?” Lil’s nose scrunches. “That’s how you spread germs. I wrote about it in my essay. You gon’ listen now? Please, please, please?” 

It takes longer than ten minutes, but Jensen stays for the entire essay. He leaves thinking about heart eyes.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Around one, Jensen swings by Mr. Yeun’s to check-in. 

A few folks have reported that their water pressure feels low, one of the gutters on Mr. Torres’ house is loose and keeps rattling and making him crankier than usual, and more than six people have asked what they can bring to the party next weekend. Rumor is Marshall wants to make an avocado sculpture. And Ms. Yumi, plus a few other seniors, would like a ride to the market, today if possible. 

The dogs at Jimmy’s apartment insist on following Jensen around as he checks the water pressure in the kitchen, bathroom, and laundry room. Uly in the apartment above provides Jensen with a large container filled with fresh seaweed as a thanks for fixing the water pressure. He adds it to the three melons, box of yams, and bags of carrots Mrs. Yee gave him for the help today. 

Afterwards, Jensen runs into Marshall in the village square and gently hints that an avocado sculpture, while cool, is not necessary for Saturday’s party. No one needs to go all out. It’s perfectly fine to show up without bringing anything. Marshall laughs and hands Jensen a jar of ube halaya, then thanks him for the funny joke. 

Not bring anything and risk the wrath of Ma? Good one. 

Ms. Yumi and three ladies join Jensen in his Jeep for the trek out to the market. A turtle crosses the road on the way, which causes a slight delay, but it’s better than the time Santos’ cows got loose and refused to move from the middle of the road. And definitely better than last December, when the rains flooded all the roads to the other side of the island and no one could get through for two weeks. 

In Jensen’s previous life as a NYC dispatcher, he dealt with exactly none of those scenarios.

The ladies walk together through the market, two by two, like a small flock of birds. 

From one stall to another, they haggle and trade and catch up. Jensen follows along and stands close by, making sure no one bumps into them. Ms. Yumi typically uses a walker, but she said she felt fine without today. Still, Jensen hovers. Sometimes tourists don’t pay attention to locals and old habits die hard.

The main hotel sits not far from the marketplace. It houses a club, two restaurants, and a spa. During peak tourist season, Div’s cousins and a handful of other village residents find work at the hotel. There are other businesses and tourist spots, but thankfully, tourists either don’t know of the village or don’t care enough to go out of their way to see it. It helps that between the village and the tourists, the forest and a large portion of land are protected and off-limits to the general public. 

Jensen walks ahead to another stall as the ladies speak to Mrs. Li and her husband. From the bits of Korean, Mandarin, and islander, Jensen can tell the conversation is a mix of gossip, updates, and haggling. Mrs. Li wants to move out to the village, but Mr. Li prefers to stay near the marketplace to set up their stall of vegetables. One of the ladies buys a pound of green tomatoes. 

It’s details like these that have made the island his home for the past five years.

Did he know his neighbors in NYC? Did he care? Did he have any attachment at all to anyone outside of work? No, no, and no.

Knowing that his group of ladies are unlikely to bolt from Mrs. Li’s stall, Jensen lingers at the fireworks stall. Once the crowd of tourists clears away, LeJan holds his arms out in greeting. 

“Jensen, my man. How’s it going, huh?” His parents moved here from Haiti, but LeJan grew up in Los Angeles. His English contains a smattering of California, which Jensen always finds pleasant and so distinctive from other folks on the island and New York transplants.

“It’s all good,” Jensen answers and returns the offered fist bump. “How’s business?” 

LeJan shrugs and ties his locs back into a ponytail. “Ah, you know. Steady, so I can’t complain. I got the Taylor in if you wanna look.” 

“Yeah, I’d like that. Any word on the Gibson?” 

“Nah, dude. I’m working on it though. You’re getting the holy grail though with the J-200. Step in, I’ll take a break.” He props up a back in ten sign and they head behind the beaded curtain of the stall. Under the shade of palm trees, ferns, and blankets hung up like a tent, Jensen and LeJan talk shop over guitars. 

The Taylor feels good in Jensen’s hands. He doesn’t need to tune it, LeJan took care of that. Despite the heat and humidity, the mahogany fingerboard offers up a cool, glossy place for Jensen’s fingers. 

“What’re you working on now?” LeJan sits on a nearby crate. “If you can share.”

Jensen softly plays the beginning to “Under the Bridge,” before switching to “Dust in the Wind,” and ending on “Everlong.” The Taylor provides great balance to the sound--clear and sharp. He stops playing to admire the meticulous craftsmanship, then plays one of LeJan’s favorites, “About a Girl.” 

“Working on lyrics,” Jensen murmurs. “Some for Jack, there’s one for Ed, and another for Shawn.” 

“Ed? As in Ed Sheeran?”

“His people reached out. It was weird.”

“Not your thing?”

“That and they were just… exceedingly nice?”

“Over polite.”

“Yeah. It’s unnerving. There’s no deadline for that one either. Just strange.” Jensen switches to “Good Riddance,” by Green Day and likes the sound of it at a quiet volume--a good sign. “I’d like to get an offer from these guys.” 

“Dude, I can make it happen.”

Jensen laughs and nods. “I know you could. But I like it when folks reach out to me.”

“Then stop writing for Ed and Jack. Write for Mark, he’s close with those guys.” 

“True. I just have other projects. NK is coming down in a week and Jared needs to have an album ready to present.” He runs his fingers over the strings. “And I’m working on something for myself.”

LeJan starts to ask about that something when a customer hollers for help. Jensen walks to the front of the stall and waits for LeJan to sell a few fireworks. 

Finished, LeJan grins and asks, “When do I get to listen to your project?” 

Jensen looks around for his ladies. They’re only two stalls ahead. He reaches for his wallet and takes out a few notes. “You want American or local for the Taylor?” 

“Can we do half and half?”

“Sure. What do I owe you?”

“You’re my best customer, Jensen. Let’s call it an even two.”

“Nah, I know this thing costs at least three hundred more than that. Plus the shipping.” 

“Don’t worry about it. I got a great deal.”

“I’ve got five in American. Can you deliver it and I’ll give you the rest?” 

“Sure thing. Tomorrow work?”

“I think so. If not, leave it with Dali.” Jensen shakes LeJan’s hand. “Thanks, man. I appreciate this. And you’ll work on the Gibson, yeah?”

“Work on it?” LeJan tucks the money into his pocket and laughs. “Shit, I might as well build it for you at this point.”

“Might as well. Hey, could I buy a few small pieces here?” 

“Take what you want, no problem. Oh, here, take some sparklers for the kids.”

Jensen pats LeJan’s shoulder and moves on. He catches up with the ladies just in time for one of them to ask for a place to sit and rest a minute. Jensen moves them towards Mrs. Durand’s stall. Today, she graces everyone with a white sun hat and navy blue dress. Jensen orders four iced teas for the ladies and an iced coffee for himself. 

Before they leave, Mrs. Durand kisses Jensen on the cheek. 

His ladies roll with the trend started by Mrs. Durand. Back in the village, as Jensen helps them out of the Jeep, they all peck him on the cheek. They leave behind a bag of milk candies in thanks for the transportation and company. 

Ms. Yumi hangs back for a moment. 

She takes Jensen’s hands into hers and gives a slight squeeze. Her wife, Ms. Theda, used to drive her to the marketplace. Ms. Theda passed away six months after Jensen moved to the island. She was a Black woman from Utah, a master at dominoes and poker, and stood at all of five feet two inches. One whole inch taller than Ms. Yumi.

“It’s good,” Ms. Yumi says, taking her time with English, “to see you happy.”

Jensen replies with the first thing that comes to mind. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

He sees her to her front door, then settles back in the Jeep. After a deep breath, he opens up the bag of candy, unwraps two, pops them in his mouth, and heads for the last stop of the day.


	11. Chapter 11

At six in the morning, Jared elbows Jensen awake. 

“Wake up,” he purrs against Jensen’s chest. “C’mon. I have an idea for a song.” 

Jensen growls and rubs his eyes. “At six twelve in the morning? I still have an hour before…”

“Great! We have half an hour to practice and then I can blow you and still have enough time for breakfast before whatever it is that you do during the day when you’re not with me.” 

“You make it sound so simple.”

“I have no idea what commoners such as yourself do for a living,” Jared huffs and gives Jensen’s ass a squeeze. “But if I can’t spend all day having sex with you, I guess I should work on my album.”

Slowly, Jensen sits up and stretches. Joints pop. Muscles ache. He gently moves Red Chicken from the edge of the bed and onto his nightstand. “Fine, but I promised…” Jensen yawns and stands up. “...the kids we’d play soccer.” 

“Ugh, children,” Jared scoffs. He follows Jensen to the bathroom and leans against the doorway while Jensen goes about his business. 

Coffee. Coffee soon. Coffee stat. Jensen tries to keep his eyes open. “Hardly a conversation to start as I’m peeing and it’s six in the morning, but I’m guessing that reaction means you don’t want kids later on?” 

Jared pushes off the doorframe and stands in front of the bathroom mirror to brush his hair. He looks just like a model would in the morning--impeccable and impossibly perfect. “I’m twenty-two. The last thing I want are some kids depending on me for their safety and well-being.”

“You make a good point,” Jensen quips and switches to brushing his teeth. 

“Whatever! At least I’m honest with myself.” The bathroom feels only slightly crowded. Their hips bump. Jared hands Jensen a washcloth. They do that thing where there’s no need to touch, but they do. It definitely isn’t just the size of the bathroom or the amount of space they take up. It just is. Jensen has noticed it more than once. “What about you? Since you’re already herding a bunch of kids anyway, I assume you want at least ten kids.”

“Eleven and I’d have my own soccer team.”

“Oh my god, can you imagine having eleven kids?”

Hesitation creeps into Jensen’s mind. “Should we be having this conversation when we’ve only been together for what… six weeks?” 

Hazel eyes ponder the question, curious and genuinely bright. “I’d rather talk about this with you than anyone else.”

“Aww,” Jensen says, trying to laugh. “How revoltingly sweet. I think I’m past my prime to have kids.”

“You make it sound like you’re a withered husk of a person.” 

They change into whatever clean clothes they can find and walk over to the kitchen, where they eat whatever food they can find. Luckily, Jensen still has leftovers of caldo. Jared opts to eat like a bird and only have toast. 

Heating up the soup on the stove top, Jensen murmurs, “I’m ten years older than you. That’s pretty withered.”

Jared pauses from buttering his toast. “And you call me a drama queen? Where’s the jam?”

“What kind?”

“The strawberry kind Ma made me.”

“You ate it all last weekend.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Why would I lie?” 

“Because you wanna eat it all.”

“You could ask her to make you more, instead of throwing around wild accusations.” 

“Hey.”

Jensen looks up from his bowl of caldo. “What?” 

“You love deflecting my questions,” Jared chirps. “Do you want kids or not?”

Called out, Jensen answers with another question. “What do you think?” 

“I think anyone who willingly plays soccer with a bunch of kids in the middle of the day probably doesn’t hate kids.” Jared joins Jensen at the table. “And probably wouldn’t make a terrible parent.”

It’s early.

But it’s not that early. 

“Thanks,” Jensen says and doesn’t try to hide his smile. 

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

The human brain processes music in pieces. Songs are deconstructed and stored in two different spots--the auditory cortex and the mid-superior temporal sulcus, or the STS. Within the STS, a song splits into music and lyrics. The music is funneled into the anterior STS, but the lyrics separate into different speech centers of the brain. 

Lyrics require the brain to recognize the words, piece them together with context, and translate them into meaning. No one area in the brain processes music alone. 

Some scientists believe that activating or stimulating the areas of the brain involved in music processing can help individuals struggling with mental illness, cognitive decline, or addiction. Even lyric analysis without any music has shown to be beneficial to people in therapy; it provides a less-threatening approach to understand and connect to emotions and experiences. 

Even though processing lyrics requires more time and energy for the brain, they are equally important to the music of a song. 

“How the hell do you know all of this?” Jared sits down at the Yamaha. “Are you secretly a brain surgeon?”

Jensen makes notes in Jared’s notebook. He doesn’t change anything, but in blue pen, he makes suggestions for different words or structure. “There are these things,” he murmurs, “called books. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of them? Rectangle in shape.” 

After another sip of tea from his tumbler, Jared elbows Jensen in the arm. “Would you quit deflecting? Did you really learn all of  _ this _ ,” Jared motions towards the piano, “just by reading? Because it doesn’t sound like it.”

A few folks were up and about in the village square when they walked out of Jensen’s place. Still, it’s early for most. Jensen predicts they have about an hour before anyone pokes their head in. 

Jared gently places his right hand on Jensen’s left thigh. He doesn’t ask for eye contact, but his voice asks for honestly. “It’s tough for you to talk about yourself and I get that. Well, okay, I don’t completely get it. I could spend all day talking about my adventures in Milan last summer, especially the cute pair of boots I got from this boutique--sorry. Anyway.” He gives Jensen’s thigh a squeeze. “I won’t push, but I’d like to know.” 

Diego isn’t here to provide any comedic relief or distraction. And there aren’t any geckos around to plop into Jared’s hair, either. Though that may cause more issues than would be helpful. 

He hands Jared’s notebook back, pencil in the pages as a bookmark. 

“You’re right,” Jensen replies, keeping his voice quiet. He rests his hands on the piano bench. “It is tough for me to do that. I’d rather listen than… yeah.”

Nodding, Jared flips open the cover to the piano keys. “Well, Versace wasn’t created in a day. I’m assuming that relaxed harmonies work better in music therapy.” 

Soft. Stay soft. 

“Not necessarily. It depends on the person. If they have more of a connection to Linkin Park than Brahms, that’s worth pursuing.” Jensen starts playing some of the music Jared wrote for the piano. He doesn’t need to look more than a minute at a sheet, especially since Jared knows how to write music. “I think you can accentuate this part here by adding a change in timbre.” 

Jared’s fingers join in. “Okay. Should we do a warm up?” 

“Mmhmm. My buddy LeJan is stopping by later. I bought a Taylor guitar.” 

Together, they flit back and forth between Jared’s music and classical pieces. “Damn, did you get a good deal on it?” 

“Yeah,” Jensen says with a short laugh. “I’m just happy to have it.” He stops playing and looks over at Jared. “Hey.”

Jared doesn’t stop playing, but he does switch to something quieter, slower. “Yeah?” He shoots Jensen a smile. “You gonna ask me more bullshit music trivia?” 

“First of all, it ain’t bullshit. Second of all, no. Not right now.”

“Okay, shoot.” 

Eye contact. Maintain eye contact. It’s okay. “Jared, I… I’m a musician.” 

“Yeah.”

“Say it back to me.”

“Jensen, you’re a musician.” 

“Jared, I’m fat.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No,” Jensen presses. “It’s not anything I’m ashamed of. I just… it’s part of my…” 

“Jensen…” Jared takes a deep breath. “You’re fat. We’re talking about that later. Go on.” 

“This next part, I don’t want to talk about later, okay?”

“...maybe.” He chews on his bottom lip for a second. “Okay. Fine.” 

Jensen reaches back for the piano. He plays different pieces of Liszt. His fingers work on the keys without much conscious thought. Catharsis. Relief. “I moved here to sober up.” Soft. Stay soft. “Before that, I.. struggled. In a lot of different ways. I had a substance abuse problem.” 

A moment without speaking might not seem out of the ordinary for anyone else. But for Jared not to talk for more than ten seconds at a time--Jensen worries. What more could he say? What more should he say? But then again, that’s it, that’s all he can say. For now. 

Jared looks at the piano, then at Jensen. “Do you… want me to repeat that back to you?” 

“No, that’s okay.” 

“Do you think we could talk about it more some day?” 

“I hope so,” Jensen answers, surprised by such an honest and immediate answer. “Yeah.” 

With a nod, Jared bumps their shoulders together. He makes sure their thighs touch as they sit on the piano bench. “I’m glad you’re here, Jensen.”

Hands off the keys, Jensen takes a second to peck Jared on the cheek. “I’m glad you and Red Chicken are here, eating all my strawberry jam.” For now. But one issue at a time. “Let’s play. Pick a warm up song.” 

A smile returns to Jared’s face. “Whatever.” 

Jared plays the opening with a few improvisations. His voice joins in, clear yet controlled. He plays and sings the song with a bluesier edge. New Orleans blues. 

“Slip inside the eye of your mind. Don’t you know you might find a better place to play. You said that you had never been, but all the things that you have seen are gonna fade away.” Every note and word echo throughout town hall--rich, steady, and smooth. “So I start a revolution from my bed… Take me to the place where you go. Where nobody knows if it’s night or day.” 

Deep breath.

“Take that look from off your face. You ain’t ever gonna burn my heart out. So, so, so Sally can wait. She knows it’s too, it’s way too late as she’s walking on by. My soul slides away. But don’t, don’t, do-o-on’t look back in anger. No, no, don’t look back in anger. Don’t.” Jared closes his eyes. 

He changes the timbre of his voice and the piano and accentuates the emotional punch. 

“Don’t look back in anger, I heard you say. Oh, oh, oh, oh, don’t look back in anger, I heard you say. At least… at least not today.” 

Vibrations from the piano continue for seconds after Jared plays the last note. Jensen places his left hand over Jared’s right. They kiss as the vibrations fade from Jared’s fingertips.

Someone slow claps from the entryway. 

Jared and Jensen immediately turn to look. Jensen doesn’t recognize the person standing there, but Jared does. 

In a gasp, Jared blurts out, “Lindy?” 


	13. Chapter 13

Most days, the village operates under a rhythmic set of everyday noises--a few cars here and there, kids playing soccer or basketball in between breaks at school, the chatter of elders trading gossip and history, old stereos playing a mixture of either classical music, rock, or the one Japanese broadcast that somehow reaches the island. 

However, this early in the morning means that the village typically has an hour or two before the start of the day. This means an hour or two of continued peace and tranquility.

Lindy shatters any semblance of peace and tranquility.

He charges towards Jared, arms held out for a hug, and screeches as loud as he stomps. Jensen has never heard anything or anyone quite like that. If he wasn’t awake a minute ago, he fucking certainly is now. 

Surprisingly--or maybe unsurprisingly--Jared rushes to meet Lindy for the proposed hug. 

About the same height as Jared due to heels, Lindy sports an outfit that could not have been comfortable or practical on a fourteen to sixteen hour flight: a shirt or blouse thing that looks to be made out of something like plastic six-pack rings, tight, rainbow gradient foil-fabric pants, and chunky black heels. His hair is short, blond, and styled--of course. 

The notes given off by a guitar string are related to the tension on the string. 

Lindy sounds like the most tense guitar string known to man. 

“Oh. My. God!” he cries, holding Jared in an extended hug. “I have been so worried! Everyone has been worried! Marc, Kyla, Dani, Nicole--well, maybe not so much her, but everyone else! I told them your aunt had the most ridiculous idea to send you to some terrible place without cell phone towers or proper WiFi! You know, GiGi’s mother did that to her and it scarred her for life. Whenever she stays in a suite now, she has to double check the signal and the WiFi. You look… well, let’s not talk about that now.” 

Jensen stands up and begins gathering up sheets of music and his notebook. 

Jared peels himself away from Lindy and breathlessly asks, “What are you doing here?” 

“Rescuing you! What do you mean what I’m doing here, sheesh. I can’t get a hold of you by phone since you’ve been staying…” Lindy looks around the town hall and past Jensen. “...on an uncivilized rock. So I wrapped up my projects and came as soon as I could. I just knew you had to be joking about the album and wanting to stay. I mean, this place doesn’t even have taxis. I had to hitch a ride here with some old man in a hunk of junk.”

Why didn’t Pico tell him a newcomer had arrived? Jensen would have given him instructions to make Lindy walk from the airport. 

“Lindy,” Jared snaps. “One more time: what are you doing here? I didn’t ask you to…”

“My god, you smell.” Lindy waves his hand around. “Ugh, good lord, what is that? It smells like… do you remember that time Tyler decided he wanted to go into fragrance? You smell like that, except worse.”

Yep. Definitely would have given Pico instructions to leave Lindy at the airport. 

And maybe to dump a bucket of paint on him. 

Jared looks over to Jensen, supposedly for help, but Jensen has no idea how to help. Any assistance would be in the form of two right hooks. No. Okay. That’s too harsh. Lindy isn’t hurting anyone, he’s just incredibly obnoxious and horrible. There are plenty of people like that in the world. 

Lindy hugs Jared again, despite the smell he claims to abhor, and this time he goes in for a kiss. 

“Well, look at the time,” Jensen growls and slides his hand across the piano keys. “Looks like I should get going. You know, get going.”

“Don’t,” Jared yips. “Uh, I’ll go with you.” 

“Jared! Who the hell were you going on about when you told me you didn’t want to leave?” Nothing distracts Lindy from Jared. “You said you were fucking someone. Did they make you stay?”

Jensen shoots Jared a look. What’s with that wording? Did Jared use those words or has Lindy taken liberties?

“No, I mean yes. Ugh. Lindy.” Jared places his hands on Lindy’s shoulders. “I told you I found someone. He’s right there.” 

Lindy glances over. Jensen doesn’t bother to wave. He stands with one hand on the piano, the other on his hip. What precious gems will fly out of Lindy’s mouth now that he can see the person Jared found?

“I don’t see him.”

“What do you mean you don’t see him?! He’s. Right. There.” 

“Is he behind the fat guy and the piano?” 

Well. 

Those were some real god damn diamonds. 

Jensen rolls his eyes and quickly steps over towards Lindy. “Hi.” He folds his arms over his chest. “I’m Jensen. The fat guy. And I’m the guy Jared’s fucking.”

The wheel is spinning, but the hamster’s dead. Lindy’s thought processes jam up and cause a momentary lapse in speech. Thank god. 

“Wait.” Oh, fuck. “Ha… good one.” Lindy leans into Jared and sharply whispers, “No, really. Where is he because I’m gonna kick his ass for keeping you here!” 

Is this guy for real? 

Could this be the one person on the face of the earth who is as stupid as he looks? Should Jensen start calling the Guinness Book of World Records now, or wait and see if Lindy does something else even more spectacular? If there isn’t a world record for someone being full of themselves, Lindy could not only break it, he could be the undisputed title holder for the next four decades. 

Jensen debates his next move. On the one hand, he’d love to punch Lindy and go about his day. On the other, this is still someone Jared knows, and a newcomer to the island, so maybe. Ugh. Maybe. Jensen should give Lindy a chance to improve. Maybe not.

“Nope, that’s still me,” Jensen chimes in, trying to keep his voice neutral. He muscles himself into Lindy’s personal space. “It’s… well, something to meet you. Where exactly were you planning on staying during your time on our island?” 

Lindy laughs Jensen off and tosses an arm around Jared’s shoulders. He leads Jared away from Jensen and continues to talk. 

“I hope you have enough space in your dwelling to fit my luggage. Is there a NutriBullet at your place? You know, I bought Yen’s new album so we can have a few laughs. Speaking of! What was with that song you just played? U.G.H. Have you forsaken our lord and savior Britney Spears? Now, I know you weren’t happy with the first album, but that’s okay. We can make it work without scrapping it. I just know you’ll love it. By the way, Victor said he wants you to walk in his show next week. I told him you were dying to work with him and well, he owed me a little favor so you’re booked! You’ll lose those ten pesky pounds on the plane ride back. We’ll start a cleanse today. I’m sure someone on this rock has to have grapefruit juice. I heard Tish lost twenty pounds on this cleanse, not that she needed it, poor thing was already a stick! Oh, you’ll never guess what happened to Tish’s cousin’s assistant. A whole order of Hermes was stolen. Everyone was in absolute chaos.”

Great.

This is gonna be just great.


	14. Chapter 14

 

On August 9th, 1986, Freddie Mercury played his last live concert with Queen at the Knebworth Park Festival in England. Over one hundred twenty thousand people attended. Queen arrived to the concert by helicopter and played a fantastic two-hour set. The very last song played was “God Save the Queen.”

No one in the audience knew that they were witnessing the final concert of Freddie Mercury and Queen.

Jensen would give anything to have been one of those people.

He’d also give anything to rip Lindy off of Jared. It’d be okay if he took off Lindy’s entire arm. Or maybe not. That’s a bit much. Just the hand currently fastened on Jared’s hip. 

Folks from the village gather outside the town hall to both introduce themselves to the newcomer and confirm or deny rumors. Min runs up to Jensen, Diego cradled in her arms. While Jared nervously introduces Lindy to Ma--she was the first to demand an introduction--Jensen kneels down and takes a look at Diego per Min’s request. 

“He looks happy,” Min dutifully reports. “Genai e porche chaitu.” 

“Si alo galesto,” Jensen answers. He strokes Diego’s shell. “Ma pla dia chos.” 

Min leans into Jensen so she can whisper in his ear. “There are holes in his shirt.” She quickly glances over at Lindy, then back at Jensen. “But I like his pants.”

Ma isn’t nearly as polite to Lindy. Possibly because he doesn’t lean down to kiss her on the cheek, accept her fruitcake, or offer a compliment to either herself, the village, or the fruitcake. Ma makes her displeasure known in a beautiful, harsh storm of Tagalog and islander. She doesn’t include a curse, but perhaps only because Jared takes the fruitcake and hugs her in an effort to extinguish the fire. 

“Jest maixec,” Min observes, wise beyond her years. 

“Hai,” Jensen sighs. He stands up and gently pats Min on the shoulder. “You’ll be late for school. Keep Diego in the tank.” Time to end this spectacle. 

“He shows up here expecting housing and food,” Ma tells any latecomers. “But barely bothers to wipe his own ass.” 

Lindy doesn’t deserve damage control. Hell, he doesn’t deserve to be here in the first place. But he is here, no matter how much Jensen wants to close his eyes and think otherwise. What makes the entire situation worse is the speed at which Lindy shoots his mouth. Not everyone in the village speaks or understands English, but a good majority of folks do. Talking about how the lack of boutiques makes the island an uninhabitable wasteland doesn’t earn him brownie points. 

Maybe Jensen won’t be the first to rip his arm off.

“Ma, what the hell are you doing out here?” Div arrives, Dali beside her. “You sent me out to get rice because you didn’t feel like getting up!” 

Before getting entangled in Div and Ma’s argument over rice, Dali sneaks over to Jensen. It doesn’t take her more than three seconds to piece together the scene and where it’s all going--straight to hell. 

“Can we get going?” Lindy scoffs. “I’m sweating. But look, I applied some of Roxy’s shimmer sunscreen before the plane landed. My god, if that’s considered business class, I’d hate to see what these people think first class elite is like.” 

Dali smiles up at Jensen. 

Jensen shakes his head. 

“I’m from the hood,” she says in a quiet laugh. “One solid punch to the throat should do it.”

“Trust me. I’ve already thought about it.”

“Yeah, but we could take turns.”

Div storms over to Lindy, taking Jensen, Dali, and Jared by surprise. She’s a foot shorter than Lindy, but takes no prisoners with the tone of her voice or her words. “Hey, new guy, you might be Jared’s friend, but you ain’t mine. I’d watch what comes outta your mouth while you’re here. There’s one of you and a whole lotta us. Got it?” 

While Jensen appreciates the way that Div puts Lindy in his place, he wishes she had approached the situation a little differently. Because once he, Dali, and Jared load Lindy’s luggage into Jensen’s Jeep, Jensen has to listen to Lindy complain the entire drive over about how he was threatened and his life was in peril. 

A headache builds in the right corner of Jensen’s temple. 

This has to be the effect Lindy has on people everywhere. 

“It’s so small,” Lindy whines as they arrive at the cottage. The look on his face screams Beverly Hills teenager meets the bargain bin at Sears. “I thought your aunt was taking care of you, not throwing you away to Gilligan’s island.” 

“Lindy,” Jared groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Could you stop complaining for two seconds? Help us get your luggage out.” 

“Tennis elbow, darling.”

“You don’t play tennis!” 

“I didn’t, until I met Adolfo. That man can swing. And what a body. Pure physical perfection. Muscles for days. Excuse me, please take care with that bag, it’s a genuine Brunello Cucinelli. Darling, how much should I tip this man? He hardly knows how to drive, let alone handle luggage.”

“That’s it,” Jensen shouts and drops two pieces of luggage to the ground. He takes two steps forward and gets directly into Lindy’s ridiculous face. “This is over. The fat guy is singing and calling it quits. Good fucking luck.” He shoulders past Lindy to get to Jared. 

“I had no idea,” Jared starts to say. “I…”

“It isn’t you,” Jensen interrupts. He reaches out and places his hands on Jared’s shoulders. “Settle him in, do whatever it is you have to do, and I’ll see you for dinner.” Jensen thumbs over at Lindy. “His ass doesn’t step foot inside my house.” 

Jared attempts to answer. 

Lindy butts in. “How dare you talk to him like that! And me! You can’t talk down to us just because we’re omegas…”

“Oh no,” Jensen growls. “I’m not talking to  _ you _ this way because you’re an omega. I’m talking to you this way because you’re an asshole.”

“You’re what smells,” Lindy gasps and makes the mistake of attempting to pull Jared away from Jensen. “And you got it all over… Jared!” 

“Can everyone chill?!” Jared shoves Lindy’s hands off of him. “Stop it, Lindy!”

“You said you were only gonna find a fuck buddy here, not mate with some…”

Finally, Jared does more than verbalize his displeasure. He picks up a carryon and throws it to the ground hard enough that it pops open and clothes fly out, landing directly into a puddle of mud. 

Jensen watches with a mixture of awe, terror, and respect as Jared walks all over the clothes and begins unloading the rest of the luggage straight from the trunk to the ground. 

“I’m sick of you, Lindy, and you haven’t been here for an hour!” 

“What the hell are you doing?!” 

“Unloading your precious Brunello Cucinelli!” 

“You’re crazy! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” 

“Me?” Jared kicks two of the pieces off to the side. “What is wrong with me? Did you move out of my place like I told you?” 

“Stop kicking them!”

Jared kicks harder. “These. Are. My. Pieces. Of. Luggage. You took them from my closet and thought I wouldn’t fucking notice! Well, I god damn did notice. No. You know what. I’m taking them back.” 

Two models fight for luggage on a gravel driveway. Well, one fights and the other sobs over clothing. 

Opening up two pieces, Jared dumps out the contents. Lindy tries shoving Jared in retaliation, but his heels make him unsteady. 

The second Jensen spots Lindy start to raise his arm, he rushes forward.

Except Jared beats Jensen to it.

He swings, punches Lindy in the face, and pushes him down. In a blaze of fury, Jared kneels down and grabs Lindy by a fistful of hair. “Stop crying,” Jared snaps. “And apologize to Jensen! Now!” Lindy continues to sob. Jared pulls on his hair. “Do it! Before I send you back to New York with nothing but plastic bags!” 

It may not be a genuine apology, but it’s an apology nonetheless--garbled and spitty. 

Jensen ignores Lindy and looks at Jared in complete shock. Jared shrugs and lets go of Lindy’s hair. He stands and dusts himself off, then walks over to Jensen. 

“Just give us until dinner, please.” 

“Yeah.” Jensen checks his watch. “Six?” 

“Sounds good.” Jared turns to Lindy. “Get up. Stop crying, I didn’t hit you that hard. Your nose isn’t even bleeding. Are you gonna be less of an asshole now?” 

“You hit me!” 

“For your own good, believe me. Pick up my luggage and get moving. It’s hot as hell out here.” 


	15. Chapter 15

Running pliers.

Needle-nose pliers.

Forty-five degree drafting triangle. 

Water soluble pen.

Ruler.

Glass grinder.

7/32 copper foil.

⅜ copper foil.

60/40 solder.

Water-soluble flux.

Stained-glass soldering iron.

Latex gloves.

Steel wool.

Dish soap. 

Patina.

14-gauge copper wire.

A piece of drywall.

Paper.

Scissors. 

For half an hour, Jensen works on a glass mosaic in his backyard. He scores and cuts glass pieces into distinct shapes, then grinds the edges and rinses them off. It’s too hot to use the soldering iron, so he continues drafting shapes, cutting, grinding, rinsing, and drying. 

Last year, he made the second grade class a pair of stained glass kaleidoscopes. His hands remember the motions of applying patina solution to the solder with a sponge. 

Jensen takes a deep breath and sets aside his tools. 

He picks up a pen and paper.

_ Help me, it’s like the walls are caving in/ _

_ Sometimes I feel like giving up/ _

_ But I just can’t/ _

_ It isn’t in my blood/ _

_ Laying on the bathroom floor, feeling nothing/ _

_ I’m overwhelmed and insecure, give me something/ _

_ I could take to ease my mind slowly/ _

_ Just have a drink and you’ll feel better/ _

_ Just take her home and you’ll feel better/ _

_ Keep telling me that it gets better/ _

_ Does it ever?/ _

_ Help me/ _

_ Sometimes I feel like giving up/ _

_ No medicine is strong enough/ _

_ Someone help me/ _

_ I’m crawling in my skin/ _

_ Sometimes I feel like giving up/ _

_ But I just can’t/ _

_ It isn’t in my blood/ _

_ It isn’t in my blood/ _

Drums in the background. Like a heartbeat. Churning. Desperate. Forceful. Building up. Vocals rise.

_ I need somebody now/ _

_ I need somebody now/ _

_ Someone to help me out/ _

_ I need somebody now/ _

Quiet.

_ Help me/ _

_ It’s like the walls are caving in/ _

_ Sometimes I feel like giving up/ _

_ But I just can’t/ _

_ It isn’t in my blood/ _

_ I need somebody now/ _

_ 2x// _

Jensen puts his pen down and runs a hand through his hair. 

He sets the lyrics aside and turns back to cutting glass.


	16. Chapter 16

Jensen listens to everyone’s complaints against Lindy throughout the day. 

How one person managed to piss so many people off within such a short amount of time is beyond him. He apologizes in three different languages and asks everyone to please be patient while the situation gets figured out. Ma offers a series of prayers and charms meant to ward off evil and negative spirits written down on notecards. Jensen tucks them into his shirt pocket. 

While they help Jensen coach soccer, Dali and Div provide ideas for sending Lindy’s ass back to New York City. Some of the kids chime in with suggestions and Jensen does his best to discourage them. 

He works through the motions of his day. 

By three, he opts to go home instead of go for an outdoor movie with Dali and Div. One of Div’s cousins got a hold of a projector and a good copy of JAWS. Jensen wishes them a good time and heads inside his house. 

He stands in the front doorway for a minute.

Back in the States, a realtor might call this a bungalow. Most folks on this side of the island live in one-storey bungalows due to convenience and security. Unlike homes in the States, residents here paint their homes bright colors. Jensen chose a peach tone with blue and green accents. With the help of Div and her cousins, Jensen painted the entire outside and inside of his home. 

For the first year, he rented it. 

The second year, he bought it.

His legs prompt a walk through. Most homes have been here for two or three decades. Folks don’t usually build new homes; they prefer to renovate and expand their homes as generations continue and families grow. Jensen added a third room two years ago, with help, of course. He chose to use a mixture of weather resistant brick, wood, and steel. In a way, construction was like creating music. 

More like jazz. 

New Orleans jazz--with its historical focus on a collective effort. 

There’s never just one horn in a New Orleans performance. There are three: the cornet plays melodic phrases in the middle register, the trombone supports it with powerful outbursts in the lower register, and the clarinet provides ornamental phrases in the high register. 

Skilled musicians avoid a cacophonous mess by understanding when and how to play individually and all at once. In almost every genre of music, that struggle exists: when to assert individualism and when to contribute to a profound collective sound.

Jensen sits down in the third room, which he carefully built as a room for music. Brick and steel are common to offset and withstand both the humidity and rainy season; wood helps with cooling and creates one of the best surfaces for sound energy. 

LeJan delivered the guitar while Jensen was helping Ms. Yumi clean out her brick oven. He left it with Dali, who carefully left it in this room, ready for him to pick up and play.

The guitar was the first instrument Jensen learned how to play. It was a rite of passage in his family because that’s what Texan families did. They played guitar and sometimes piano. They couldn’t afford a piano, so his father bought him a box guitar with three strings.

One strum of the Taylor and Jensen can’t help but smile and sigh. LeJan tuned it for him, but he makes a few minor adjustments to his specific preference. 

Holy fuck, it sounds  _ good _ . 

He worried about the smaller scale length, as cautioned by other players with larger hands and bodies. But no. It fits. Everything fits. 

A deluge of songs to play fill his mind. Guitar ballads. Guitar classics. Guitar anything. 

His fingers and mind settle on something not specifically made for an electro-acoustic guitar, but it’s worth trying out, worth feeling and exploring. He stands, takes a deep breath, and translates “Miles Runs the Voodoo Down” for the Taylor. Typically a song with an ensemble of twelve musicians, Jensen picks apart each section to feast upon with his fingers and guitar strings: trumpet, soprano saxophone, bass clarinet, drums, percussion, electric piano, electric bass, string bass, electric guitar.

Jensen plays warm, glassy, deep, clear, airy, low, high, smoky, and hazy.

Notes rush out from the strings, hurried, but always in control. 

The dreadnought shape with cutaway allows for higher fret experimentation. Rosewood amps up the acoustic warmth without sacrificing the sharp, bright snap of rapid bebop. 

Something is missing. 

But what? 

It irritates him. Digs underneath his fingernails and pulls at the tendons in his hands. Fuck. What the fuck is it? How can he suss it out? 

“Don’t stop,” Jared pleads, standing in the doorway. “Keep playing. It’s great. Keep going.”

Jared grabs the Fender PM-1 off its stand and jumps in without hesitation. He plays slow to Jensen’s fast. Fast to Jensen’s slow. Harmonic to distorted. Loose to compressed. Growling to sparkling. 

Notes grind, slide, and pummel against brick and wood.

Jensen accelerates the rhythm. 

Jared keeps up.

They shape phrases, add shades and textures to tones, adjust their dynamics and play off their personalities in every melodic passage.

The two guitars howl.

Strange and wonderful music happens moment by moment. 

Until they stop.

At the exact same time.

Breathless, sweating, and electrified. 

Eyes locked, Jared smiles, brushes his hair out of his face, and licks his lips. He sets down the Fender, gently takes the Taylor from Jensen, and kisses him. Jared kisses like the Taylor plays--the bass sounds brassy and the trebles sparkle. All is as it should be.

Still panting, Jared presses their foreheads together for a second. 

“I…” he murmurs, his lips pinky and glossy like rosewood sides. “You were amazing.” 

Jensen rests the palm of his hands against Jared’s neck, thumbs over his jaw. There was something there, right? Or is he imagining things? Something more than what they’ve said so far. Something he doesn’t necessarily want to be the first to say.

“Likewise,” Jensen replies with a laugh. “Sorry… my brain…”

“Uh huh. Same.”

“You’re early.”

“I hitched a ride over.”

“Oh. Good.” 

“Jensen.”

“Hmm?”

“I need to be honest. I did. I did say that. That stuff about finding a fuck buddy. But.” Jared places his hands over Jensen’s. “I said it before meeting you. I said it way before I even had any idea about you. That’s not what this is.”

“What is it then?”

Jared smiles again. “I’m not completely sure. Something I’ve never played before.” 

Jensen returns the smile. He runs a hand through Jared’s hair. “It sounds pretty good. But you’re sure you don’t wanna fly back to the city with Lindy and your fancy luggage?” 

“As if!” Jared huffs and rolls his eyes. “I was trying not to blow up at him in front of you and everyone else, but then the tip thing and the luggage thing…”

“Ah, so it was the luggage,” Jensen teases.

“No! It was everything. The luggage was just the god damn last straw. I promise it wasn’t the luggage. Jensen. Jensen, are you listening to me?”

Holding Jared’s hand, Jensen leads him out of the music room and into the kitchen.  He listens to Jared talk about the work on his album and starts dinner--a quick pot of jjambbong.  Noodles, onions, garlic, zucchini, carrots, cabbage, pork, and plenty of chili oil come together to make two large bowls of spicy soup.

They take their bowls outside. Jensen lights a few colored lanterns and hangs up a wind chime.

Then for a while, neither of them need to talk.

 


	17. Chapter 17

_ What side of  _ **_love_ ** _ are you on?/ _

_ Is it giving you  _ **_all_ ** _ that you  _ **_want_ ** _?/ _

_ Is it  _ **_taking_ ** _ you higher?/ _

_ Are you  _ **_walking_ ** _ the wire?/ _

_ What side of  _ **_love_ ** _ are you on?/ _

_ It will wake you up in the dead of night/ _

_ When you feel alone it can change your mind/ _

_ It can tell you every word to  _ **_say_ ** _ , whispering to walk  _ **_away_ ** _ / _

_ It can make you feel you’re bulletproof/ _

_ Or can cut you down with the  _ _ bitter  _ _ smallest truth/ _

_ Sometimes it can  _ **_take_ ** _ control/ _

_ Sometimes it just  _ **_lets_ ** _ you go/ _

**_Ooh_ ** _ , let’s you go/ _

_ Chorus _

_ It can light you up/ _

_ It can leave you cold/ _

_ From the atmosphere/ _

_ To the ground below/ _

_ If black and white turn into gray/ _

_ Maybe love is just the same/ _

_ Ooh, just the same/ _

_ Chorus _

_ Oh, oh, don’t give up, don’t give up on/ _

_ All, all what we’ve got, what we’ve got, no/ _

_ Oh, oh don’t give up, don’t give up on/ _

_ Taking sides with me/ _

_ Well, you don’t have a choice once it’s gone/ _

_ So what side of love are you on?/ _

_ Chorus 2x// _

Jensen closes his notebook and passes it to Jared, who reads the two pages and adds a few suggestions in the margins. 

In Jensen’s bed, they fall back asleep soon after.


	18. Chapter 18

In 1980, Rob Halford of Judas Priest challenged Freddie Mercury to a motorcycle race. 

This came after the music video for “Crazy Little Thing Called Love,” which had Freddie ride a stationary motorcycle. Immediately after watching the video, Rob took to BBC Radio 1 and challenged Freddie to an actual race--anytime, anywhere. 

Unfortunately--or fortunately, depending on the viewpoint--Freddie never answered the challenge. 

“You’re making this shit up,” Jared laughs. He rolls out of bed and stretches. “Quit making shit up.”

“I’m not making anything up.” 

“Last week you told me that horrible story about Paul McCartney.”

Jensen sits up in bed to watch Jared get dressed. “It’s not my fault you don’t believe me,” he yawns. “Why are we up this early again?” 

Jared selects a pair of black shorts and a turquoise tank top. “Because I don’t want to leave Lindy unsupervised for that long. It’s already been more than twelve hours. I should probably also feed him. And take him for a walk. And change the water in his bowl. Jensen.” He turns and grins. “Quit staring at my ass.”

“Nah. I don’t think I will.”

“What if I blow you?”

“I’d appreciate it,” Jensen says, completely honest. “It just wouldn’t stop me from future staring.”

“One day,” Jared grumbles and ties his hair into a ponytail, “you’re gonna tell me the truth about how much Paul McCartney was really paid at the Olympics.” 

Jared plops a pillow on the floor and kneels in front of Jensen at the edge of the bed. 

All Jensen can do is reiterate that Paul was paid the astonishing amount of one pound, or roughly a dollar fifty-seven.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fish song is snippets of a poem by Jenny Johnson from In Full Velvet. <3

Cacophony is necessary for good music.

Without understanding cacophony, no one would really understand or listen to euphony--pleasing and harmonious sound patterns as opposed to rough, jarring sounds. Musicians can use the effects of cacophony to make a point and draw a listener’s attention to certain messages within the song or its purpose. It takes skill, but to learn anything about harmony requires the exposure to sound that is intrusive, harsh, and unpleasant.

Jensen tries to repeat this to himself in the presence of Lindy’s voice.

“I didn’t fly all the way here to do sightseeing,” Lindy complains from the backseat of the Jeep. He holds onto a flamingo pink sun hat with one hand and the grab bar with another in an attempt to hold on for dear life. He reminds Jensen of the lawyer character in Jurassic Park.

Too bad there aren’t any actual dinosaurs on the island.

Though Miwa did find some fossils last summer.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t wanna spend all day inside with you, so whatever,” Jared shouts over the roar of wind. “I haven’t been to the beach yet and I need to work on the album.”

“It’s fine just the way it is!”

“Can we not argue? Can we just… not? Because I’m tired of it.”

“You’re tired? I’m jet lagged as all hell!”

Dali rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. She called shotgun in order to escape from sitting next to Lindy. Jensen doesn’t blame her. “Is he gonna be like this the entire time?”

“Don’t ask me that,” Jensen sighs.

“Right.” Dali reties her blue bandana over her hair. “There are lots of opportunities for an accident at the beach.”

“What are you talking about?!” Lindy butts in. “Are you even taking us to the beach?!”

It might not be too early to have an accident at the beach.

No. No, that’s too cruel. Patience. He brought Ma’s prayers and charms with, and Div will meet them here in an hour or two for lunch. They are in control here, not Lindy.

Jensen parks in the usual spot and ignores Lindy’s questions, comments, and concerns.

“I’ll grab the umbrellas,” Jensen offers. “Dal, you got the cooler and supplies?”

“Yep.”

“We can carry stuff,” Jared chimes in. “What can we carry?”

“Towels,” Dali answers. “Just the towels.”

Jared insists on carrying more, though Lindy remains mute. Jensen explains that first timers to the beach should carry softer, lighter things. Maybe on the way back they can carry more.

“I don’t wanna sound like Lindy,” Jared says, picking up all four towels, “but I don’t see a beach.”

“You can’t park at the beach.” Jensen carries one umbrella over each shoulder. “You gotta walk. Mind your steps. Watch how we do it.”

Lindy scoffs and grudgingly takes a towel from Jared. “I took two years of ballet. I have excellent balance.”

Jensen knows that both Jared and Lindy are expecting a resort kind of beach, but that’s an hour and a half away on the other side of the island. This part of the shoreline is better and more secluded. Later in the summer, more folks from the village come out, but for now, it’s just the four of them.

There are two ways to get to the water--the first being a series of wooden stairs leading to a pier, which hasn’t opened up for the summer yet. Rodrigo and Luna haven’t been out to test it, so the only safe way down and back up is to scale the black rocks down. Luckily, both Jensen and Dali have marked the sturdiest rocks with green flags from previous summers.

The shoreline here is mostly rock, with only a little sand here and there. Water from larger waves in the winter gathers on some of the rock, making a home for crabs. Jensen leads the way while Dali stays behind Jared and Lindy in case one of them fall.

Lindy surprises no one as he squawks about how this doesn’t count as a beach. “Beaches have _sand_ ,” he explains. “This is not a beach. Darling, do you remember our summer in Monaco?”

“Somewhat,” Jared murmurs, almost slipping. Jensen offers him an arm, which he quickly accepts.

“You could eat on the terrace of Le Vistamar--that’s a Michelin starred restaurant. What can you do here? Sit on a bunch of rocks?”

Jensen doesn’t entirely hope Lindy will fall and eat shit. There’s one percent of his conscience holding out still. “We fish,” Jensen explains to Jared. “I have a favorite rock.”

Jared’s nose scrunches. “You mean, you catch fish?”

“Do you remember that mackerel I made last weekend?”

“Of course I do. It was delicious.”

“Where do you think the mackerel came from?” Jensen allows Jared to piece this together.

Dali stands on a rock next to Jared and Jensen. She grins and passes over two fishing rods. “C’mon, Jared, it’s kinda fun. We’ll fry them up when Div gets here.”

No one, absolutely no one asked, but Lindy offers his opinion. “I’d rather be eating spinach ravioli with a glass of chilled rosé.”

After digging in the cooler, Dali holds up a bottle of sake. “Don’t worry, we got booze. If anything, you can get drunk off your ass while the rest of us haul in fish. That’s basically your trip to Monaco.”

“Excuse me,” Lindy starts, walking off on rocks without a green flag designation, “but our time in Monaco was sacred, right Jared? Of course, the Hotel de Paris is still under extensive renovation, but the Monte-Carlo Pavilions are nice enough. Did I tell you, Laura invited us again? She loved going to Chanel with us. We can leave in June. She’ll charter a jet for us. We can eat at Gelatorino and, afterwards, well, you know…”

To Jensen and Dali’s disappointment, Lindy doesn’t slip.

Dumb luck.

“You wanna join him--wherever he’s going?” Jensen asks Jared before proceeding to his favorite rock. “Should I tell him that he’s too close to the water or should I let him find out?”

Jared looks over to Lindy, then back to Jensen. A crab scuttles past them. “Nope! I’m good here with you and Dali.”

Dali opens up the bottle of sake, takes a swig, and passes it to Jared. “Good choice, there. Drink up.”

Their party sets up camp on two large, flat rocks smoothed down by thousands of years of waves. Jensen explains how to fish, but Jared ultimately passes, preferring to sit under the umbrella and work on a few songs. Dali and Jensen climb down a few more rocks and cast off. Jensen takes two swigs of the sake, then opts for water.

“Sometimes I miss the Bronx,” Dali muses. “Do you ever miss any of the boroughs?”

Before Jensen can answer, Lindy yells for Jared to join him. Jared yells back. Lindy yells back. Back and forth it goes on like that until Lindy decides to schlep back over to them.

“Not really,” Jensen mutters and reels in a decent-sized mackerel. “I don’t miss the noise. Why?”

Cross-legged, Dali shrugs. “I’d miss you if you left here. But I wouldn’t blame you. From one New Yorker to another.”

He smiles and bumps their shoulders together. “Well thanks. But leaving isn’t the same as staying gone.”

“Good lord, don’t I know that,” she says with a small laugh. She bumps their shoulders back. “Que sera, sera, right?”

Jensen nods, looks out at the ocean, then over his shoulder to Jared.

Without pausing for breath, Lindy talks endlessly about the benefits of switching producers, making another album without revising the first, and spending the summer in Monaco with civilized social company and entertainment. He desperately tries to name drop brands, people, and places.

Jared looks up from his notebook.

A smile starts, small at first, but it grows to show off his dimples. He stands, brushes aside complaints from Lindy, and carefully makes his way over. Jensen pays attention to the way Jared’s skin has gradually soaked up the sun in his time here, how the highlights in his hair appear gold, and how even the smallest, briefest smile reaches his eyes.

With success, Jared makes it to Dali and Jensen’s fishing base.

He wraps his arms around Jensen’s shoulders, his chest to Jensen’s back, and plants a kiss on his cheek.

“Let me try?” He places his hands over Jensen’s on the fishing rod. “Maybe I’ll catch dinner.”

Dali makes some space between herself and Jensen for Jared to sit. Jensen hands over the rod and offers a few tips. He shows Jared how to cast, and after a few attempts, Jared succeeds. Dali shows him how to reel in a bite. Jared refuses to touch the bait or the fish, but he manages to pull in three mackerel.

“Stay here long enough and you’ll be reeling in the big ones,” Dali says and bumps her shoulder against Jared’s. “Jensen, what’s our song?”

“Oh, you mean our song for reeling in the big ones?”

“I mean, if you remember it.”

Jensen leans into Jared. Their skin, slick with sweat and sunscreen, sticks together. He sings the first few lines loud and clear, in a light, moving rhythm. “Thank you day for dappled things, for ambrosia beetles streaking skylines inside a maple. For pansies speckled as a painter’s sleeve.”

Standing up, Dali extends her arms out to the ocean. Her voice rings out as smooth as the water. “For russet-crusted sidewalks of lichen, airy springs of fiery-structured fringe. For pink corpuscles making midges soon to burst out the undersides of leaves.”

“Thank you for all that’s still somehow counter, original, spare, and strange. For the brightening swell of a honeybee’s sting.”

“For the alien markings,” Dali happily sighs, winding down the song, “on my girlfriend’s cheek and how they form a perfect triangle.”

The beach is all warm sun, cool breeze, the smell of salt water, and sharing ideas about Jared’s album. Water laps at the rocks further down, tempting everyone to go for a swim later on. Time passes in such a different way than in any other place on or off the island. Dali shares stories about the Bronx. Jensen shares details of the two restaurants in New York City that were his frequent haunts.

Jared starts sharing the best parts of Fashion Week as both participant and audience member. He talks about the tedious time spent in the makeup chair, but the unexpected hospitality of many major designers. Then, his line pulls and Jared starts to reel in the biggest mackerel yet. Excited, he shouts and stands up; both Jensen and Dali help with the rod, cheering Jared on. Almost. Almost…

“I am getting a sunburn!” Lindy yells, loud enough to cause all three of them to flinch.

The mackerel takes advantage and releases the bait, then falls back into the ocean with little more than a splash.

“Well,” Dali whispers, shoulders slumped. “That’s unlucky.”


	20. Chapter 20

Shortly after, Div arrives with a portable grill and cast iron pan. She helps Jensen clean enough fish for Dali to fry up. Jared watches Dali host an impromptu cooking class on the rocks she calls, “Short, Fat Black Woman From the Bronx Fries Fish on the Rocks.” 

No one tells Div about the giant mackerel lost to the ocean.

It’s too hot to dwell on it and no one feels like prying her hands away from Lindy’s throat.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added chapter!

Their group extracts themselves from the beach two hours later, bellies full and muscles relaxed. 

Div and Dali lead the way up the rocks, holding the cooler and frying pan between them. Their sandals and sneakers step with easy, unhurried confidence. Div ended up stripping down to her sports bra and boxer briefs to take a swim. She wears one towel wrapped around her middle and another slung over her shoulders. Dali quietly says a little something in Tagalog--words of affection and devoted praise.

The cooler jolts on Div’s side in reaction and her entire face turns red. Jensen smiles to himself.

Honeycomb sunlight signals the start of sundown.

Beside him, Jared follows Jensen’s lead once again, though his footsteps seem less hesitant than before. It helps that Jensen convinced him to take off his Gucci sandals and go barefoot. 

Overhead, a few clouds form an exquisitely shaped cluster. Their shape and stark white color promise no impending or sudden storm.

After lunch, Jared and Jensen curled up together on a flat, warm rock. Underneath one of the umbrellas, Jensen laid down and Jared put his head first on Jensen’s chest, then on his stomach. 

Anxiety nudged at Jensen, a familiar presence whenever Jared touches or references Jensen’s middle. He worked to remind himself that Jared’s touch has never felt hesitant or carried some kind of obligation. As the waves rolled and the scent of salt lingered, he willed himself to relax. 

Jared asked to hold Jensen’s hand on the climb up.

He runs his thumb over Jensen’s, and every few seconds, gives a squeeze. From the content shine in Jared’s eyes, to the way his wind blown hair somehow remains utterly picture-perfect, Jensen determines that they should come to the beach more often. 

A seagull’s shrill, frantic squawk lights up a hundred sticks of dynamite and effectively blows the moment to smithereens. 

Wait. That’s not a seagull. 

“Jared! You said we were going to spend time together!” Lindy hisses. He keeps his voice low; Jensen assumes he believes fat people can’t hear thin people at a whisper. “I did not haul ass all the way out here to be treated like Tom Ford’s 2012 Spring collection!” 

The squeeze to Jensen’s hand occurs out of agitation and desperation. Jared stops climbing and looks back at Lindy, who trails three or four rocks behind. Jensen tries not to take too much satisfaction at the sight of Lindy’s red face and heavy breathing. Not a paragon of fitness afterall. 

“No one asked you to haul your cookies any place but out of my apartment and you couldn’t even handle that. Also, how dare you invoke Tom’s unfortunate incident in 2012.” Jared’s tone could chill lava.

Undeterred and seriously misguided, Lindy continues prattling on about how Tom’s 2012 Spring collection was an unfolding nightmare--all self-referential, complicated, and fussy.

Jensen helps Jared up the last rock, a notoriously difficult step. He sets down both umbrellas and two towels, then turns back and extends his hands to Jared, who clasps them without hesitation. For the first second, Jared seems to have good footing. However, all it takes is an inch of slippery rock for things to go from good to bad. Jared falters and begins to lose his balance. 

Best case scenario would be skinned knees and bruises. 

Worst case scenario would be a steep, painful tumble.

Dispatchers require an innate ability to use judgement and make split second decisions in high-risk, high-pressure, fast-paced situations. 

NYPD dispatchers must retain control in every situation. No exceptions.

Sharp reflexes don’t hurt, either. 

Jensen tightens his hold on Jared’s hands and helps haul him up. The way Jared looks at him as they stand an inch apart makes it seem like Jensen just told him that Vogue called and they want Jared for their next cover. Relief shows up in the flash of a dimpled smile.

“Thanks,” Jared murmurs. He tucks a piece of his hair behind his right ear. “You saved me from certain death.”

“Or from having to use some Hello Kitty bandaids on scraped knees,” Jensen quips and offers a smile. 

Hazel eyes skim over Jensen’s arms. “Have I… praised your upper body strength lately?” 

Pleased, Jensen shrugs. “Nope. Guess you needed me to save you from certain death to start.” 

On cue, Lindy makes yet another noise eerily similar to that of seagulls. “Jared! A little help here?! Or are you too busy making goo-goo eyes with the help? God dammit, these are my favorite gladiator sandals. Can anyone tell me what the point was in coming out to this desolate rock?” 

Maybe actual seagulls can hear Lindy speak. Tough to know, since there aren’t any around to ask. 

“Sweatproof my ass, MAC,” Lindy grumbles, his chest heaving. He wipes at the mottled corners of his eyes. “Argh! It’s in my eyes! Jared! Help!” 

Jared sighs and removes his Armani drawstring bag from his back. After a few seconds of fishing, he finds makeup remover wipes and hands them over. Lindy whines and demands that Jared help him. Jensen doesn’t miss the glare Lindy shoots in his direction right after, like some smug child.

Over by the Jeep, Div makes a motion with her hands that is too gruesome to describe, while Dali prefers to masterfully calculate her response. 

“I don’t see it,” Jensen says, one hand on his chin. “Why you chose to make your first album with his help.” 

Before Jared can answer, Lindy interjects. “Excuse me? You’re questioning  _ my _ place in Jared’s musical debut?” 

“Yeah, I’m questioning you,” Jensen growls out, full Bronx accent. “Can you even play an instrument? Read sheet music? Grasp the basic concept that he should never recorded that album in a traditional studio because it made it sound like he was singing into a concrete mixer?” Jensen picks up the umbrellas. “I guess I find it funny that you call  _ me _ ‘the help.’ At least I’m fucking useful.” 

“Oh,  _ sure _ ,” Lindy snaps, his face redder than one of Jensen’s Hawaiian shirts. “I suppose you pull your weight, huh? All six hundred pounds of it.” Immediately, he turns to Jared. “How do you even find his dick?” 

Div moves to storm over. Dali holds her back. 

Lindy continues, because of course he does. “Tell him what you and I had back in New York. I’m the one who got you into the best parties. The best clothes. I introduced you to people Cher never could have.” His words rattle out, fast and desperate. “And here you are, Jared. Look at you! You had your fun, you did what Cher wanted. When you use the condom, you throw it the fuck away.” 

Unexpectedly, Lindy’s voice softens. 

“Jared, darling,” he murmurs. “Don’t you remember Milan? Or that villa in Barcelona? New Year’s Eve in Copenhagen? I could call Donatella up and we can anywhere in the world tomorrow--just you and me.” He glares over at Jensen, then turns on the puppy eyes for Jared. “Fat Amy over there? All he’s gonna do is use you for your talent and take all the credit.” 

Jensen rolls his eyes. Good lord. 

Jared steps forward and places his hands on Lindy’s shoulders. 

For a second, Lindy perks up. 

After taking a deep breath, Jared issues his answer. “I do remember Milan. And Barcelona. And Copenhagen. I remember why we were friends and why we were together.” Without a tremble in his voice, Jared adds, “I also remember that _ I _ paid for all of those trips--and it wasn’t all on my AMEX.” 

He claps Lindy’s left shoulder. “You’ll survive, Lindy. Like you always have. And.” One last pat to Lindy’s shoulder. “Talk about Jensen like that again and I’ll tell Michael what you said to Karl about his 2015 Spring Collection. You remember what Michael promised the fallen--doomed to cycle through print ads for K-Mart.” 

It isn’t the threat Jensen would have chosen for this situation, but it has its desired effect on Lindy: he shuts the fuck up, mouth open like one of the fish caught for lunch.

The world gives a collective cheer for the absence of Lindy’s opinions. 

Dali awards Jared with a half-hug, half-fist bump combination. She lightly punches Jensen in the arm and helps him with the umbrellas. 

“We should jam at Ma’s,” Dali announces with a clap of her hands. “Blow off a little steam so Div doesn’t have a heart attack.” 

“I’m not gonna have a heart attack,” Div snarls, and addresses Lindy, face to face. “I’m gonna give  _ you _ a heart attack if I hear one more…” 

Jensen clears his throat and jingles the keys to the Jeep in his hand. “Let’s get this show on the road. Div, if Lindy feels like joining us, you can threaten him when we get there.”

Fortunately for Lindy, Div drove to the beach on her cousin Tito’s motorcycle. Dali hops on with her and the pair drive off in the direction of the village. 

Walking around to the driver’s side of the Jeep, Jensen gets in, while Jared takes shotgun, and Lindy sulks in the back. Jensen ignores the sensation of Lindy staring daggers into the back of his head. He can sit there with his arms crossed over his chest like a big baby until the end of time for all Jensen cares.

“Have I told you,” Jensen says to Jared, once they’re in motion, “the story of how your Aunt and Meryl Streep once saved a young woman from getting mugged in New York City?”

“What? I’ve never heard that story!” 

“Sit back and relax. Picture it: New York in the eighties. It was the scum of the earth back then. The world needed heroes like Cher and Meryl.” 

Jared laughs so hard that he snorts. 

Jensen enjoys that sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think of this as a deleted scene lol. Thanks to D for the brainstorming!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added chapter!

Jam sessions deepen the connection between a musician and their instrument. 

They offer the opportunity to master improvisation, challenge convention, and inspire new song ideas. Jam sessions can go hours. Fuck, they can go weeks with the most experienced and in-sync band being able to pick up right where they left off--no matter how late at night or early in the morning. 

Rookies in music tend to practice the same sets over and over without any spontaneous jam time. They don’t take advantage of the time to build and create chemistry between musicians. And because of that, they can’t listen to their bandmates and offer constructive criticism from the inside. So when criticism comes from outside the band, they often can’t and don’t take it. 

On the flip side, Jensen has seen more than a few legends fall prey to routine and rely on their reputation instead of using unstructured, collective jamming to their benefit. They make the mistake--sometimes a career-ending mistake--of tossing aside jam sessions because they can’t see instant, tangible results.

Some of the greatest pieces of music have been born out of jam sessions.

Music is conversational. 

Div bounces ideas off of Jensen, Jared, and Dali for guitar solos. As the four of them set up instruments and tune, Pogi runs around, yapping and excitedly wagging his tail--which is infinitely more useful than Lindy, who insisted on clinging to Jared for the entire evening. 

In all his poodle wisdom, Pogi keeps clear of Lindy. 

“Good boy,” Dali coos, bending down to give Pogi a treat. “Who is the best boy? The best!” 

Ma pops out of the kitchen for a moment to complain about Lindy’s presence. In a mixture of Tagalog, Islander, and English, she voices her displeasure. As they finish setting up a few patio torches, Jensen and Div assure her they have the situation under control. 

The cool mint green grass sparkles in the light of the torches. 

Jensen responds in Tagalog easily, letting her know that Lindy will most likely be gone in ten minutes. “Huwag mag-alala, lalabas siya rito sa loob ng sampung minuto.” 

A perpetually sweet, fragrant scent lingers in the safety of Ma’s backyard. Her prize-winning flowers curl with the humidity. Clusters of Ceylon Myrtle poke out from between walls of yellow cottonwood. Dotted sun orchids resist the weight of another humid evening; their navy petals crisp and captivating. 

Not entirely reassured by Jensen’s statement in Tagalog, Ma lingers. She shuffles out, dressed in her lilac house dress and pink slippers, then picks up Pogi. 

“What you do?” Ma asks, though she’s seen them jam before. The next part, she clarifies in Tagalog. “In front of ungrateful no-good.” 

“Sit with us,” Jared anxiously chimes in. He may not understand Ma’s words, but he isn’t ignorant to her meaning. “I won’t be playing. Just these three.” He thumbs over at Jensen, Div, and Dali. 

Consideration skims Ma’s features. Glancing over at Lindy, her eyes narrow. She holds Pogi close to her chest. “Ahn. Portel múltin te fache date lui.” 

When Jared looks to Jensen, Div, or Dali for a translation, Div only sighs, shakes her head, and grumbles out a reply. “She’s just muttering a thousand year old curse of our ancestors. The one they used to sing before human sacrifices of all the blonds in the village.” 

“What?!” Lindy snaps and looks around for any sign of a joke. Finding none, he stands up from the empty beer cooler he had been given as a seat, and opens his mouth to shriek some kind of retort. 

Beating him to the punch, Jensen signals the beginning of the jam session with one loud, hard strum of the Ibanez GIO. The resulting sound--heavy, raw, prominent--commands attention and sets the tone for tonight. Jensen doesn’t want to play muted or sweet. 

Electrified. Meter-mashing. Explosive.

Jensen plays the opening riffs to the Hendrix masterpiece “Voodoo Child.” 

On the drums, Div hollers her approval and jumps right in, her rhythm and timing impeccable. Equally barbed and furious, Dali joins in on bass. Together, pulled into frenzied sync, they create a fast, slashing, storm of a tribute. The song drops its more muted opening and fans out in flames. The guitar licks get nasty. The drums punch mean and dirty. And the bass fuses it all together with rhythmic, throbbing, hellish fury. 

Dali sings in the background, her voice haunting and mystic. 

“Well, I stand up next to a mountain. And I chop it down with the edge of my hand. Well, I pick up all the pieces and make me an island. Might even raise a little sand.” 

Psychedelic. Delta Blues. Jazz. Gospel. 

Without missing a beat, Jensen and Dali switch instruments for the final build up. Front and center, she commands attention. A fire breather. Sword eater. Yoruba god. Liberated. Free.

Div and Jensen play around and underneath Dali. They give her and the Ibanez a divine platform. Jimi’s piece becomes exactly as it was born--spontaneous and primal. Their music bleeds into the air, all gold, red, silver, and neon blue. 

Their sound is tight. Their rhythm is on point. 

With a smirk and a raise of the guitar neck, Dali issues the beginning of the end. Spiraling chords. Distorted notes. Shrill riffs which scream the frustration of mayhem, chaos, and glory. 

The guitar and bass fade out, but the drums keep going. Div slows their pace, panting and sweating but no less in rhythm as she builds a bridge from one song to the next. Laughing and shaking her head, Dali hands the Ibanez back to Jensen. He hands over the Yamaha. 

“How the fuck…?” Jared shouts, arms waving, complete fascination in his eyes. “You guys! You’re not just pretty faces!” 

Ma scoots over to Div and insists on wiping her forehead with a dish towel. “Ma! You’re gonna make me miss a beat… Ahn!” 

Jensen nods over to Dali. “You hear that? We’re not just eye candy.” 

“I have my doubts about the drummer,” Dali quips. She smiles wide, tongue peeking between her teeth. “But the other two are a’ight, I guess. Good enough to be invited to the cookout.” 

“With fried catfish,” Jensen says. He pulls at his sleeveless shirt. “Damn, it’s hot.” 

Jared hollers, “Take it off!” 

Lindy says something, but it isn’t even worth registering. Jensen asks the groupies in the audience to please calm down.

“I  _ will  _ throw my panties,” Jared adds before he sits back down. He makes a set of finger guns and points them directly at Jensen. “Lookin’ at you, lead guitar.” 

Dali shouts back at Jared. “Do it! Do it! I’ll throw my bra!” 

“You’re not even in the audience,” Jensen laughs. 

“Oh, fuck, you’re right. Well, that and if I throw  _ my _ bra, you’ll probably walk away with a concussion.”

“Dal, you’re a true friend.”

Extracting herself from her Ma, Div shouts, “Can we start playing?! Before I stab someone?!” 

Ma waves Div off and says goodnight to everyone with a kiss on the forehead. Except for Lindy. She walks past him and mutters some of the darkest Tagalog Jensen has ever heard. Pogi follows her lead and snarls, which earns him a pat on the head and the promise of more treats. 

Once Ma disappears into the house, Div and Dali debate the next song. 

Jensen’s brain switches to autopilot and he plays something out of muscle memory. He looks over at Jared and notices the sheen of sweat over Jared’s throat, the impossibly perfect curl to Jared’s hair with a ringlet framing his face. His long, bare legs stretched out, shadows from the fire highlighting smooth, toned thighs. 

Div tosses a spare drumstick at Jensen’s head. “Earth to Jensen.” 

“He’s making sex eyes with a ticket holder,” Dali loudly whispers. “I thought we agreed on no flirting with the groupies.”

“That’s not a groupie,” Div groans, impossibly put out. “That’s just Jared.”

Jared laughs, loud and clear. “That’s right. I’m  _ the  _ groupie. Lead guitar better start showing some skin or I want a refund.”

“I can take my top off?” Dali offers. “Don’t turn a girl down too harsh though.”

“I’ve got one more drumstick to pitch at your head, Dali,” Div mutters. She stops playing out of protest. “I’m sick of everyone flirting with Jensen.”

Jensen looks over his shoulder at Dali and offers a smile. “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.” 

Without missing a beat, Dali adds, “Don’t be a hater, baby! It ain’t the boy’s fault that he’s fine as hell. Maybe we should open this up to requests? Like how about… ‘Hey Flakey White Boy, You’re So Vain’?” 

“That’s not part of the title,” Jensen snickers. “Don’t insult Carly Simon.” 

Dali gasps. “It’s not?” She presses her right hand to her chest. “Oh my god, my mistake.” 

Div stands up. “No Scrubs! No Scrubs! No Scrubs!” 

Dali counters with, “Pretty Fly for a White Guy!”

Jared blurts out, “Forget You!” 

If CeeLo Green appeared right this minute, he wouldn’t cause nearly half the stunned silence or triumphant applause from the band. Dali and Div strike up the bare basics to the song and croon the first few lines. Jensen laughs and jumps in. 

The three of them play and sing, shoulders shaking, steps lively. “I guess the change in my pocket wasn’t enough, I’m like, ‘Fuck you and forget her too!’ I still wish you the best with a, ‘Fuck you,’ ooh, ooh, ooh! I pity the foo-oo-ool that falls in love with you. Oh, she’s a gold digger. Bein’ in love with your ass ain’t cheap. Fuck you, ooh, fuck you!” 

All laughter dies the second Lindy stands up and points at Jensen.

His shrieks and razor accusations slice through the drums. “I know  _ you _ ! I fucking know who you are now!” He turns to Jared and grabs him by the shoulders. “I thought he looked familiar, Jared! You have to listen to me! I saw him in some horrible bar outside of the West Village after a so-called performance! Holy shit! I didn’t recognize him at first because he was a hundred pounds lighter back then.” His eyes zoom in on Jensen and his face twists with self-righteous pleasure. “But it’s tough to forget someone when after the show they’re face down on the sidewalk from an overdose.” 

The Ibanez becomes glass in Jensen’s hands. 

One squeeze too tight and it’ll shatter.

If it isn’t the addiction itself that haunts ex-addicts, it’s assholes like Lindy that do. 

New York City from the sidewalk sucks. Broadway? The Empire State Building? None of that matters on the sidewalk where the stench of rotting garbage and piss reigns supreme. In the summer, the stench was worse. Sidewalks practically steamed. Sweating. Swollen. Oppressive, destructive, visceral. 

There were times when Jensen could have drawn detailed maps of particular sidewalks outside of a laundry list of dive bars, hole in the wall clubs, and twenty-four hour storefronts. 

And there were times Cher took him out to eat at Michelin star restaurants or for an evening at a secret jazz club hidden away on the top floor of a sleek building. 

She’d always bring him to her penthouse suite before their outing.

And talk to him as he showered and shaved, then take quick measurements of his shoulders and waist to send out for clothes. Her personal shopper would deliver the clothes within the hour--impeccably tailored and pressed. 

He lost track of how many times he apologized to her over the years.

He lost track of how many times she insisted no apology was necessary.

At the end of their nights, she would walk him to the door of wherever he was staying and say, “You have to be like a bumper car sometimes. And hit the wall. Take it from me, Jensen.” She would playfully nudge his chin. “I thought I’d be dead by now.” 

If Cher believed in him, maybe that was a sign.

Or it was just one of those things that happened in New York City. 

Jensen takes a deep breath and wills the sounds of sirens and frantic shouts of EMTs away from his thoughts. He turns to Dali and holds out the Ibanez. 

“I’m done for tonight,” he says, his tone warm for her. He looks at Div. “Thank you for the jam session. I’ll see y’all tomorrow.” 

They look at Jensen, ready to charge at Lindy on his behalf. Jensen shakes his head and holds his hand up. Not necessary. 

He looks over at Jared, then glances at Lindy. Their eyes meet for a brief second. Without a single word directed to him, Jensen keeps on walking. 

“Let’s go home, Jared. Time to turn in. Dal and Div can drive him back. Or not.” 

In a split second, Dal and Div vote on, “Or not.” They also vote to call Div’s cousins for assistance with the intruder trying to break into Ma’s house--some lanky white dude with blond hair. Can’t miss him.

Jared catches up with Jensen and stands in front of him, forcing him to stop. 

“Repeat this back to me,” Jared says, a touch breathless. “I… I am a H&M model.”

Outside of Ma’s house, on the street, Jensen insists, “We don’t have to do this.”

“Just repeat it, Jensen,” Jared quips. “I did it when you asked. Now it’s your turn to pony up.”

Jensen takes a deep breath. He misses the weight of the Ibanez in his hands. “You are a H&M model.”

“Okay. Okay. Uh. I used to be exactly like Lindy.” The words come slow. “And that’s why we got along so well.”

“...you used to be exactly like Lindy and that’s why you got along so well.”

Jared scrubs at his face and avoids eye contact for a brief moment. His fingers curl into Jensen’s shirt. “I… I don’t wanna be like that anymore.”

The weight of the Ibanez feels nothing like the presence of Jared wrapped around him in a tight embrace.

Jensen nods, then lets his shoulders drop and relax. He returns the hug full force. And repeats back, “We don’t wanna be like that anymore.”

They take their time going back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to feyrinna for the suggestions that made up the bulk of this chapter. and D for the brainstorming/song help! <3
> 
> "voodoo child" by jimi hendrix will change your life. just saying.


	23. Chapter 23

At one in the morning, Jensen wakes up facing away from Jared.

There is also a body of theory concerning practical aspects of music, such as the creation or performance of music, orchestration, ornamentation, expression, improvisation, notation, harmony and counterpoint, and sound production. But it could get more specific than that--tuning and tonal systems, scales, consonance and dissonance, rhythmic relationships, dynamics, texture, form and structure. 

Math is often utilized in the understanding of music. Set theory. Abstract algebra. Number theory. Golden ratio. Fibonacci numbers. Transposition. Inversion. 

E quelle dii quirava soglie mae foro.

E quelle dii quirava soglie mae foro.

E quelle dii quirava soglie mae foro.

I can’t get you off my mind. 

I can’t get you off my mind.

I can’t get you off my mind.

“Jensen?”

Jared turns on his nightstand light and sits up. 

“Hey, are you okay?” 

This isn’t Texas. It isn’t New York. It isn’t the NYPD dispatch office and he isn’t listening to a child on the other end of the phone. This isn’t his first night on the island, alone, shaking, heaving, vomiting, sweating through towels, promising himself the next flight out of here.

His mind needs to calm down.

He isn’t alone. A gentle hand on his shoulder proves that.

Quickly, without stopping to put clothes on, Jared rolls out of bed and steps into the bathroom. He brings back a cool, damp washcloth.

He presses it to Jensen’s forehead and runs a hand through his hair. 

Then he slips back into bed, slots his chest together with Jensen’s back, and sings something soft, familiar, and not completely in English.


	24. Chapter 24

John Deacon wrote “I Want to Break Free” in 1983. Overall, the song sticks to a traditional twelve bar blues progression in E major. Queen released it in the beginning of April 1984. Three versions of the song exist: single, album, and extended. 

It appears on Queen’s eleventh album, the first album they worked on after taking a year apart from touring and recording together. Deacon’s track possesses complex pop craftsmanship, complete with a slick rhythmic riff, and catchy vocal melody and harmonies. The album as a whole charted in the Top 20 in over a dozen nations worldwide, and the band resorted their reputation as a quality act. 

The music video for “I Want to Break Free,” produced by David Mallet, cost an estimated $140,000 to make. Despite being banned from MTV in the States, the video was a hit. 

And, anyone who has seen the video knows that at about thirty seconds, Queen creates the most iconic use of a vacuum cleaner in any rock video ever. 

Jared doesn’t have a vacuum cleaner, but he does have a broom.

“I Want to Break Free” plays at full blast on Jensen’s stereo system at six in the evening, which is early for appearances of Queen in this household.

Jensen stands near the doorway, completely not expecting, but entirely needing, this impromptu concert. He clings to a box of produce as he laughs at the sight in front of him. Jared doesn’t look surprised to see Jensen, which means he probably heard the Jeep approach the house. He just smiles, bows, and pauses the music. 

Jared doesn’t have a black leather miniskirt either, but he does somehow have a bubble gum pink ballerina tutu and strappy black leather tank top. 

“You like it?” Jared models the tutu. 

“Is that one of the essentials you brought with?” Jensen sets down the box, still laughing, and fully appreciates the view. Jared paired the tutu with a pair of shredded black leggings and a pair of red high heels. The look works. 

Especially since the leggings show off Jared’s shapely legs. 

Jared issues a knowing smile and places a hand on Jensen’s chest. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He pushes Jensen towards the living room. “But these shoes are Jimmy Choos, do you like them?” 

After a few backwards steps, Jensen finds himself in a prime position to sit on the couch. 

That’s exactly what Jared wants. He gives Jensen a firm push in order to get what he wants. “This top,” he says, hands skimming over his chest, “is Donna Karan, do you like it?” 

“I have a certain preference for you naked,” Jensen answers, reaching out and placing his hands on Jared’s hips. “But I guess I like this okay.”

Instead of complaining, Jared is speechless. He bites his bottom lip and hesitates in issuing a response. Did Jensen say something wrong? Was he supposed to extensively praise the heels?

“You smell really,  _ really _ good,” Jared blurts out. He then grabs Jensen by the shoulders. “Let’s have sex.”

If Jensen had any doubts of Jared’s capability of getting what he wants, those doubts immediately die. Jared starts up Queen from the beginning. He model walks towards Jensen during the intro. Every movement stays in rhythm with the combination of drums, guitar, bass, and synthesizer. 

Jared freezes the second before he joins Freddie on vocals.

“I want to break free. I want to break free! I want to break free from your lies, you’re so self-satisfied, I don’t need you.” Jared nails the key, pitch, and tone. He grins, winks, and turns around in a dramatic huff. His heels hit the floor in sync with Roger Taylor’s drums. The view is nothing short of impressive. 

How fast can Jensen rip those leggings off of Jared? 

Freddie and Jared sing in-tune. “God knows, I want to break free.” Jared swings around, arm dramatically posed over his forehead. “I’ve fallen in love. I’ve fallen in love for the first time, this time I know it’s for real! I’ve fallen in love.” 

He might as well be inside a British brick terraced house--singing into an imaginary mic. 

Step by step, Jared makes his way back over to Jensen, confident and alluring. And while he’s not being entirely serious in his singing, his voice duets well with Freddie’s. 

Sound and sight, Jensen just needs touch.

“It’s strange but it’s true,” Jared happily belts out. “I can’t get over the way you love me like you do.” 

There are another two minutes of the song. 

Jensen lets Freddie sing the rest. He pulls Jared down onto the couch, tutu and all, and in zero to sixty, he finds himself ripping black leggings in a very convenient place. Synth solo. Subdued instrumental bridge. No chorus. The part in the song where the Royal Ballet appears. 

None of it matters the second Jensen pushes into Jared. 

Jared straddles Jensen’s hips, arms wrapped around Jensen’s shoulders. Face to face. Jared is all spicy, sweet fragrance and flavor. Friction, fever, and tulle. 

They move against each other in sweaty, tangled, smoldering choreography. 

Another song starts to play, but all Jensen hears is the sound of Jared shouting obscenities and commands. Jared rides him at a burning, unrelenting pace. Slick coats Jensen’s cock and knot, and the insides of his thighs--and whatever’s left of the leggings. 

One creamy squelch after another and Jared works himself open enough to take in half of Jensen’s knot. Jensen brings him in for one brief, rough kiss. 

He leans back, giving Jared some more space, and drags his fingers down Jared’s back. 

After a deep, shuddering breath, Jared works his hips down. 

Jensen feels so good, so fucking real. 

His cock and knot respond with a breathtaking intensity to every single powerful movement of Jared’s. So good, so good, so good… 

“Oh, fuck!” Jared comes, wet and lush. 

Jensen pulls Jared close by the waist and pounds up into him. Jared shouts and groans, fingers digging into Jensen’s middle as he begs to come again.

He even says please.

All ache, need, want, crave, Jensen adjusts the angle of his cock, fucks into Jared hard and primal. 

So good, so good, so good.

Orgasms overwhelm them both. Jensen’s cock and knot pump Jared full of come. Hands fisted into Jensen’s shirt, Jared takes it all, moaning and begging for every last drop. 

A minute later, Jared pries his hands off of Jensen’s shirt. 

He slumps forward, still breathless and panting. Still knotted together, he runs his hands through Jensen’s hair. His eyes take on a shade of violet. 

He rests his head on Jensen’s chest and murmurs something about gratitude for the place to rest. 

It’s unexpected.

And a little alarming. 

 


	25. Chapter 25

“Can we, uh, move from the couch?” 

“Huh? But I’m comfy.”

“Jared. We’re moving.”

“No. I refuse.”

“Get off of me or I’ll knock you off.”

“I. Will. Not. Be. Moved!”

Jensen easily moves Jared. 

Like a two pound sack of flour.


	26. Chapter 26

Jensen manages to ignore Jared’s whining and the accusations of neglect. He needs a shower. And time to think. 

Outside, he peels off his clothes and quickly readies the shower. Each home on the island has an outdoor shower, which is often more spacious than an indoor one. When he first arrived, Jared had no idea how to use the one at the cottage. Now that he spends the majority of his time at Jensen’s, Jared pretends like outdoor showers don’t exist. Jensen, on the other hand, prefers them. 

When he’s finished remodeling the backyard, he’ll have the perfect view whether he wants to shower or just sit on the porch and write.

Once hot water decides to make an appearance, he ducks under the spray and sighs in relief. It might be seventy-some degrees this evening, with high humidity, but his back and shoulders crave cool water. 

And his hips.

He’s been using a lot of hip muscles lately.

Eyes closed, Jensen runs his hands through his hair. 

Ten years ago, he had nothing to do on a Sunday night in West Village of all places. He vaguely remembers hitting up Marie’s Crisis for drinks, then Fat Cat’s but the set sucked, so he ended up two blocks over in a basement club somewhere on 10th and 4th. 

It was like stepping into a hot spring. 

Every piece played, every artist on stage, was blisteringly profound. He couldn’t, at that time, repeat back to anyone how he got there, but he could understand that Malika Tirolien singing in Creole and French was heaven, as was the band’s incredible compositions and instrumentation. It was all percussion and guitar and heady, heavy, hot energy. 

Set after set after set, Jensen sat at a table, sweating, craving, and completely captivated. 

Everyone hollered. Everyone hummed. Everyone sang. Everyone stared in reverence as sets reached their musical climaxes. 

Someone brought the space back down to a single saxophone lush with long, smooth notes. 

Enticing. Effusive. 

“Jensen?” Jared stands near the shower, wrapped up in a towel. “Can I join you?”

Soft. 

Remain soft.

“Come on in,” Jensen murmurs and makes space underneath the water. “What’s with you asking?” 

After he slips off his towel, Jared steps in, sighing just as Jensen did under the hot water. “...it looked like you were having a moment.”

“Hmm. Guess I was.” 

“What were you thinking about?” 

“How brilliant REM’s ‘Out of Time’ album is.”

“Fuck you,” Jared huffs and turns his nose at Jensen.

“No, really. It spent one hundred and nine weeks on the US charts.”

Jared reaches for a bottle of shampoo, but manages to carry on a glare. “Spare me your bar trivia. Forget I asked. Forget I attempted to have a conversation with you. Forget…”

“What are we?” Jensen blurs out. He wrings a washcloth in his hands. “I mean, I think we should figure something out.”

“While I’m washing my hair?”

“Forget I asked,” Jensen sighs and rolls his eyes. “Forget I attempted to have a conversation with you.”

“Oh, that’s mature.” 

“I was thinking about New York.” 

“You were? What part?” 

“West Village.” 

“Huh. Boucherie is there. Brunch is decent, but the service, ugh.” 

“I wasn’t thinking about a restaurant, Jared.”

“What else is there in West Village?”

“Name the three bands that make up the grunge holy trinity.”

Jared’s nose scrunches. Rinsing his hair, he peers over at Jensen. “What? Why?”

“Just do it. If you can.”

“Ugh, whatever.”

“So you can’t,” Jensen presses. This is ridiculous, but not. He wants to know if Jared knows. 

“I can. I just don’t want to.”

Jensen looks down at the poor washcloth he’s been beating up. “Right, okay.”

“Pearl Jam,” Jared finally answers, adding conditioner to his hair. “Who opened with the Smashing Pumpkins for the Red Hot Chili Peppers at one point. Weird. And Soundgarden. Not my favorite, but Chris Cornell was talented.” 

Letting go of a breath he’d been holding, Jensen smiles. “Two of three.”

“Do I even have to say it?” 

“Yep.” 

“With the lights out, it’s less dangerous. Here we are now, entertain us.” 

“...and?” 

“Oh my god, Jensen, it was Nirvana. Sheesh. Do you want me to name off all of Sub Pop’s bands?” 

“I mean...”

“Mudhoney!” Jared mutters. “The Shins, Tad, Shabazz, The Postal Service, Sleater-Kinney, Green River, Sunny Day Real Estate, Sebadoh, Sonic Youth. You want me to keep going? I will, so help me. Do you know how many copies of ‘Nevermind’ were first shipped out in the US?”

Jensen starts to answer, but Jared cuts in. 

“Forty-six thousand because no one, including the band, expected them to clear one hundred thousand. Expectations were  _ that  _ low. Within eight weeks, it was selling three hundred thousand every seven days. So there, Mr. Big Shot Music Expert. I know my shit.”

With a smile, Jensen hands Jared his towel, then shuts off the water. The setting sun casts a blood orange tint on stone, tile, and brick. It makes Jared’s skin look like fresh peach cream.

“I just want to know,” Jensen says, gathering up his clothes so they can head back inside, “if my feelings look or sound anything like yours.”

After drying off his hair, Jared doesn’t bother wrapping his towel around himself again. It’s too hot. His voice takes on a tone similar to the way his hair feels between Jensen’s fingers--impossibly soft. “Does this have something to do with Lindy?” 

Yes. Of course it does.

But should he say that? Maybe his expression already does. What’s there to be so shy about, anyway? If Jared wanted to be with Lindy, he’d be with Lindy. Jared refuses to sleep in the cottage while Lindy occupies the island like a plague of locusts. So what bothers him so much?

Words wrench themselves out of Jensen’s mouth, like he has no experience with them. “Can we call it reassurance?” 

In response, Jared bumps their shoulders together and walks ahead of Jensen, leading them back inside. “When I’m out here for a shower, I close my eyes and think of you,” Jared confides. “Only you.” He adds a little shrug. “Well, you and music.” 

“You and music,” Jensen muses aloud. 

“Yeah,” Jared quips and laughs. “So let’s not fuck it up. Now make me dinner.” 

 


	27. Chapter 27

Ma visits Jensen at seven in the morning on the dot.

She speaks in rapid-fire Tagalog. Her curlers are still in her hair and she wears the orange sundress Jensen bought her two months ago.

What she says isn’t complicated.

But she emphasizes it more than once.

“Don’t you let anyone push you around, anak. O ako ay gupitin sila.” 

"Or I will cut them," sounds much more elegant in Tagalog than in English.


	28. Chapter 28

The last time Jensen spoke with his mother, she told him not to call back unless he was moving back to Texas where he belonged. 

Div helps Jensen carry mops and buckets into town hall. 

“That’s harsh,” she proclaims. “Wait, I take that back. For me, that would be heaven. With my luck, my mom will be calling me every day ten years after we  _ both _ die.” 

Before the summer season completely envelops the island in nonstop heat and humidity, Jensen wants to clean out town hall and make repairs. He cleans town hall twice a year--once before summer and once after. The kids used to help, until it became more of a chore to make sure they actually cleaned. 

As with many things, Jensen prefers to start early. 

As with everything, Lindy complains. 

“It’s barely eight. Why are we here? I’m not engaging in manual labor. I’m on vacation.”

Dali follows them with a cooler full of snacks, while Jared takes his place at the piano to work on a few songs. He has been excused from helping. No one expects any help from Lindy. Actually, no one invited Lindy, not even Jared. 

Jensen sets down an armful of supplies. He fished out a black sleeveless shirt to wear today instead of his usual short sleeve shirts. Everyone else followed suit with their own choices in clothing to help keep cool. Except for Lindy. Maybe Calvin Klein came to him in a dream and ordered him to wear skin-tight jeans, heels, and a canary top that is somehow both a sweater and a cardigan with the word ‘CLIMAX’ printed in silver across the chest. Maybe that happened. It would make a whole lot more sense than purposefully choosing to wear that on a day where it’s most likely going to hit ninety five degrees.

“I too am only here to look pretty,” Dali chimes in. She sets the cooler on the fold out table by the podium in the center of the room. 

“Yeah you are,” Div quips and winks at her. 

“Oh, baby, you’re so sweet.” 

“Well…” Shrugging, Div looks down at her high tops. “You know…” 

Dali pulls Div in by her tank top straps and smacks a kiss on her lips. “When we’re done here, I’m gonna steal you away and treat you so good.” 

Jensen smiles to himself, then looks over at Jared, hoping Jared might convey something similar. 

Lindy mouths off as he leans against the piano. “This is an inferior instrument, Jared. A Yamaha? What are we? Peasants? Don’t you miss your Bosendorfer?”  

“We’re peasants,” Div shouts from her location far, far away from Lindy. “We didn’t know what a piano was until you came here. We were just smashing coconuts on it!” 

Jared heaves a sigh. Jensen feels like heaving a bucket at Lindy’s head. 

While he plays a few bars, Jared grumbles, “Lindy, you’re being a real fucking pain. I told you to stay at the cottage.”

“And spend more time away from you? You’ve barely spent more than a few hours with me--alone.” 

“I wonder why.” Jared messes up halfway through. “Ugh. My fingers are stupid today.” 

“I have to leave for LA in two days to make it to Glinda’s shoot and you just keep spending time playing this hunk of junk and sleeping over at… at…  _ his _ house.” 

There’s going to be a time when Jared doesn’t sleep at Jensen’s. A time when Jensen doesn’t walk down a street with him right after the sunsets and they trade opinions on Debussy and the Sex Pistols. When he doesn’t taste the salt and sweat on Jared’s skin at two in the morning. Or listen to Jared sing in the shower. Or grumble about the lack of strawberry jam in the fridge. 

Dali nudges Jensen, snapping him out of his thoughts. “E sonici morti. You know I could do it. Just a few quick jabs to the throat.” 

“It’s fine. I got this,” he answers. Div looks on with a glare she learned from Ma. Jensen walks over with a mop and thrusts it into Lindy’s arms. He makes direct, piercing eye contact with the jerk. “You wanna stay in here, you’re gonna have to work something other than your mouth. Get mopping.”

One hand to his chest, Lindy gasps. “Are you threatening me?” 

“Yes,” Jensen says with a smile. “I am. And seeing as I got about two hundred pounds on you, guess who’d win?” 

“Two hundred pounds of fat,” Lindy snaps and tosses the mop to the side. “I took three years of self defense.” 

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Good for you. Go ahead, take a swing at me. Try it.” 

Jared stands up, about to speak, but Lindy accepts the challenge. He aims at Jensen’s gut. 

Without hesitation, Jensen grabs Lindy by the wrist and twists his arm, then slams him against the piano, pinning him down for a long moment before pushing him away. “I didn’t come to play games, Lindy,” Jensen clarifies, his tone firm. “I came to mop--even if I have to use you to clean the floors. Now get to work or get out. Jared--you’re on a deadline.” 

Lindy starts to run his mouth. Div and Dali step forward. 

“I just got here,” a voice calls out from the entrance. “But I’ll join y’all. I’m down to kick that white boy’s ass.” 

One of the music industry’s best producers sets down his duffle bag and calmly approaches. In his black jeans, fitted black v-neck, gray mid-top shoes, square shape dark sunglasses, and Yankees hat, NK cuts a distinct and confident figure. He’s changed hair styles since the last time Jensen Skyped him. Instead of locs, he trimmed his hair close, with a few twists at the front. 

NK eyes Lindy, who stays quiet for once. 

Then he turns to Jensen and grins. “Man, it’s fucking good to see you.”

“Fucking good to see you too,” Jensen echoes and dips in for a tight hug. “You might have told me you were flying in a day early. I would have met you at the airport and drove you in.” 

“I finished up stuff with Marshall earlier than expected, so I wanted to surprise you. Seems like I got here at the right time. You know not to start an ass kicking without me. Dude.” NK squeezes Jensen’s shoulders. “You look so god damn  _ good _ . Wait until Hetfield hears this. He worries about you, you know.” 

Jensen does not often blush, however, his ears and face burn up with the mention of James. “I keep meaning to Skype him.” 

With a smile and a fist bump, NK laughs. “Do it sooner rather than later so he’ll stop texting me. Also, you did not tell me it was gonna be this hot.” He claps his hands and turns to their awed audience. He addresses Div and Dali first. “Y’all. Thanks for stepping up. I’m Naman. Or NK, whichever. Hugs or fist bumps?”

Dali looks at Jensen, then to NK. She accepts a hug. “Nice meeting you. I’m Dali. This is my girlfriend, Div.” 

Div greets NK with an excited fist bump. “Are you from New York?” 

“Yeah, center of the musical universe. You ever been?” 

“Nope,” Div sighs, hands in her pockets. “Never been. Dali’s from the Bronx though.” 

“Muliner and Pelham,” Dali says, smiling. She reassuringly puts her arm around Div’s shoulders. 

“I got an auntie on Waring and Barnes.” NK nods over to Jensen. “Auntie says hi, by the way.” Next up, NK addresses the reason why he flew in with an outstretched hand. “Jared. Good to see you. I’ve heard good things.”

Jared’s expression is that of wonder, joy, and disbelief. He shakes NK’s hand and immediately thanks NK for flying out, for being here, for just… existing. “I…” Jared’s voice falters for a second and he looks to the piano, then back at NK. “I know I didn’t make the best impression when we met at the launch party at Intime. Uhm. I was kind of a hot mess.” His eyes land on Jensen and he smiles again. “But I’ve been working on something new. Well. We. We have been working on something new.” 

Nothing gets past NK. He wouldn’t be one of the top producers otherwise. 

He is also straightforward and honest about his expectations and goals. Nodding, he explains, “I’m gonna be straight with you, Jared. I’m here because Jensen and I go way back. If he says music’s good, it’s good. I flew sixteen hours from New York to LA to here solely on his word.” NK motions towards Jensen. “This dude got me here. I’m here four days before I gotta head back and work with Trent. So. Show me what you got.” 

Lindy starts to say something, but NK shuts him down. 

“No,” he says, simply. “No, basic white boy. We don’t got time for you right now. If it’s ever time for some basic white boy shit, you’ll be first in line, I promise.” 

Jared pulls Jensen aside, anxiety clear in his hazel eyes. “What should I play?” 

“What do you want to play?” 

“I wanna play everything. Shit.” Jared fidgets with his hair and ties it back into a ponytail.

Jensen nods in understanding. He softens his voice and places a hand on Jared’s shoulder, then gives a gentle squeeze. “Comeu di quere.” 

Dimples flash. “I have no idea what that means, but it sounds so good.” He gives Jensen a peck on the cheek. “Remind me to thank you later.” 

“Jared.”

Jared sits at the piano and looks back at Jensen. “Hmm?” 

“Thank me later.” 

With a dramatic sigh, Jared rolls his eyes and turns to the piano. The Yamaha’s keys await him. 

 


	29. Chapter 29

David Richards engineered and co-produced albums for Queen. He helped Queen record several classic albums--A Kind of Magic, The Miracle, Innuendo, and Made in Heaven, all of which made number one.

He was there when David Bowie and Freddie Mercury sang the first cut of “Under Pressure.” 

A producer oversees and manages the sound recording and production of an album. No two producers work the same. Some prefer to focus on the instrumentals, others co-write songs, and some provide coaching in the studio. Any good producer should supervise the entire process of recording an album from the concept stage to pre-production to recording to mixing and, if they’re worth their salt, anything to do with budget, schedules, contracts, and negotiations. 

It is the responsibility of the producer to guide the artist and the album. An artist possesses the talent, but a credible, competent producer makes the difference between an album on clearance and an album with a legacy. David Richards worked endlessly to constantly refine what he had until he was positive it was absolutely the best track, mix, or album. 

After Freddie Mercury passed away, it was David who polished and fine-tuned the fragments of the tracks for Made in Heaven. 

A musician’s relationship with their producer is one based on trust.

Naman spends the rest of the day with Jared at the piano. They eat, take a bathroom break, then go right back to the keys and Jared’s notebook. Sheet music and lyrics sprawl over the lid of the Yamaha. 

Producers go through years of ear training. Their profession relies on being able to spot problems and identify them before they impact the quality of a song, the recording, or potential technical setbacks. It’s difficult, time-consuming, and expensive to fix problematic audio once it’s recorded. At this stage, the very beginning, it’s crucial that an artist and a producer immediately address any issues. 

“No,” Naman murmurs, tapping his pen against his lips. “Don’t press the pedal there.”

Jared’s brow furrows in concentration. “What about… here?”

“Nuh uh. Two seconds after.” 

“I was thinking here, too.” 

“Play it again.” 

“Sure.” 

Naman scrubs his face and continues to listen. 

An hour later, he calls for a break. 

Jensen, Dali, and Div finish cleaning at the same time. The five of them sit down on fold out chairs and share the contents of the snack cooler. Sliced mangoes. Bags of Takis. Polynesian chicken salad scooped onto roll-ppang. Chestnut rice. Cold, crisp lemonade. 

No one asks where Lindy slunk off to and Jensen doesn’t bother mentioning it. The guy’s an adult. And if Jared isn’t worried, then Jensen isn’t. 

After lunch, Jensen leaves, not because he wants to, but because duty calls. There are sinks to fix and gardens to help with and elders to check on. He leaves Naman and Jared to it. 

Throughout the rest of the day, Jensen plays back the stories Naman and Dali traded about the Bronx over lunch. 

They talked about Belmont and the Ciccarone Playground, which sits near the best place to get tiramisu ever. Of course, any conversation about Belmont had to include Borgatti’s Ravioli and Egg Noodles, which anyone who is anyone on the East Coast absolutely must visit and try an order of linguini. It’s that dope. And okay, not to stick with Belmont because there are so many other places in the Bronx, but who can forget Teitel Brothers’ Grocery on Arthur, just northeast of 186th? That’s where Dali once witnessed an all out brawl between two ladies right before the start of the High Holy Days. 

He imagines Jared walking beside him in the Pelham Bay Park, on the Siwanoy Hiking Trail, complaining but also enjoying it. Jensen could take him to Split Rock, a boulder broken by a glacier during the last ice age, and also the site of the Battle of Pell’s Point during the Revolutionary War. 

On and on, Jensen could pile on facts and trivia about pockets of his old neighborhoods. Street by street. 

By the evening, Jensen tries to refocus his mind and pry it out of New York City. 

He lives here now, and is happy for it. Naman said he looks good. The island has done that for him. Going back to New York City isn’t an option. 

Look at everything he has right here, right now. A home with more square footage than most New Yorkers can only dream of. A community that cares for and needs him. A spacious living room with a large dining table and comfortable seating where a cool breeze floats in through the open French doors that lead out to the backyard. 

Anxiety forms a knot in Jensen’s stomach as he works in the kitchen. He makes pasta from scratch, eager for something to occupy his hands that doesn’t involve music. 

And yet there it is. 

He mixes and kneads the dough by hand and catches himself doing it in the rhythm of “The Sidewinder,” by Lee Morgan. Fuck. Stop that. Two seconds later, he sprinkles flour over the counter the way Barry Harris plays piano on that track--light and quick. Okay. Okay--stop. 

While the pasta rests, he sets to making meatballs, also from scratch. 

Mounds of ground sirloin bounce from hand to hand. Sinuous. Stinging. Soulful. 

God dammit.

Naman and Jared arrive just as Jensen sets dinner on the table. 

The best producers tell their clients what they need to hear. Not what they want to hear.

“It’s a good album,” Naman says, confident and calm. “But if we want to go any further, we have to get you both back to New York City.” 

Jared raises his glass of sake to the announcement. “Woo hoo! Isn’t that great, Jensen? We can fly first class the whole way there. My treat.” 

Jensen plasters on a smile and nods. “Great,” he rumbles. “Sounds great.” 


	30. Chapter 30

 

“There are like, a million and five things I wanna do when I get back. We’ll go to a spa first. I need a manicure or three. And maybe I should cut my hair. What do you think? I like it long, but the upkeep and the frizz, yeesh. And! Oh my god, my bed. I miss my bed. My Italian satin sheets. Fuck, I hope you like my place. Oh! I should call ahead and see if they can squeeze us in at Del Posto. You like Italian, wait until you eat there. Of course, the wine list, holy shit the wine list. And then the Gagosian. They have a new exhibit I’ve been meaning to see, ugh, I hope it’s still there. We can make fun of all the fashion wannabes at Cafeteria. I’m so so so getting a new outfit from Behaviour. Last time I went there, I found the best slim-fit color-block blazer from the latest Gaspard. Cost me an arm and a leg, but… Jensen?” 

Jared pokes at Jensen as they lie in bed, the lights turned off, the rest of the house quiet. 

The mattress squeaks as Jared shuffles around. He kneels and drapes himself over Jensen so that they are face to face. Jensen looks at him with raised eyebrows. 

“We can go to the Bronx,” Jared offers with a smile. “You can show me around the neighborhood.”

No one can say they’ve seen all of New York City. It simply isn’t possible. Each borough contains a galaxy of streets, sidewalks, alleyways, and bodegas with secret doors to karaoke rooms and taquerias. And what might be open or visible under sunlight completely transforms once bathed in moonlight.

Jensen makes no claim that he has seen all of New York City. But he saw enough.

Hazel eyes refuse to break the stare down. Jensen sighs and reaches out with his right hand to cup Jared’s cheek. He swipes his thumb over Jared’s impeccably shaped eyebrow. 

In all this time, he hasn’t missed the sound carnage of firetrucks, ambulances, car horns, or construction. 

Tonight, he inhales the scent of lemon and eucalyptus, and basks in the familiar, almost hypnotic buzz of cicadas in the trees outside. This couldn’t happen in the city. 

“I’m not sure I want to go,” Jensen admits, his voice low. 

Jared tenses up. “Why not? It wouldn’t be for a long time. Just enough time to record the album.”

“That could take weeks.” 

A beat of silence signifies a careful selection of words for his response. Jared shakes his head. “Okay, maybe, but I’ll take care of everything out there. You won’t have to worry about money.”

It’s Jensen’s turn to tense up. “I have my own money. And that’s not my point. I can’t be gone for weeks. I have a job here.”

“So fly out for the first week, then fly back if you need to.” 

Irritation flutters in Jensen’s chest, but he wills it down with a deep breath. “Look. I’m not a producer. You don’t need me there.”

Jared looks away and huffs. He holds his hands up in exasperation. “I’m trying really, really hard not to shake some sense into you, Jensen. Look at my hands. They are ready for some Jensen-shaking.” He rolls out of bed in one fluid movement. Pacing in the dark, he plays with his hair--something he does when he’s either anxious or panicking.

There should be a compromise here. 

Or some kind of magical solution where everyone gets what they want without leaving their respective comfort zones. Yep. Sure could use one of those right about now.

Any moment now.

Now.

When a magical solution fails to appear, Jared and Jensen look at each other. Their eyes meet through the indigo darkness of Jensen’s room. Jensen tries to figure out what Jared’s thinking without having to ask for it. He gets the feeling Jared might be doing the same thing. 

Jared lets out a sigh and climbs back into bed. 

“Let’s talk about this in the morning,” he says, his voice smaller than it was before. 

Jensen matches Jared’s sigh. “Yeah. That’ll probably help.” 

He can tell that neither one of them really think it will. But it’s worth trying, especially when Jared curls up into him regardless. 

Be soft. Be soft. Be soft. 

Grateful, Jensen returns the gesture; he wraps an arm around Jared and pulls him in close. 


	31. Chapter 31

Jensen hasn’t lived in a place with natural scenery in about eight or nine years. Even when he was back in Texas, Dallas wasn’t exactly rural, unspoiled country. 

He wakes up without his alarm, and lingers in bed before getting up. 

Today is his anniversary party. 

Five years ago, he arrived without a clue as to how he’d make this work. And he was so sick from withdrawal and sobriety, all he could do for the first week was focus on staying alive. He didn’t leave the rented house--didn’t leave his room or bathroom. Every day, he ate pre-packaged food or soup, and drank one of the several giant bottles of jasmine tea. 

Once the headaches and nausea cleared, he begged with himself to go back the fuck to New York. 

He would try harder this time to stay in the city and cling to sobriety. And maybe he wouldn’t have to go cold turkey. Maybe there was an easier, less drastic way to ease off and forget about everything that made the good feel great and the great feel better. 

Everyone in New York knew he played better on something. He could play louder, faster, longer. 

Jared sneezes in his sleep.

Directly into Jensen’s face. 

Jensen sighs, shakes his head, and decides to get up. Wiping his face with his shirt, he fails at suppressing a smile. He carries on with his usual morning routine, puts on a pair of navy cargo shorts and a black tank top, then quietly walks to the kitchen.

Naman sits at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in his hands. 

Before Jensen can say good morning, Naman gives him a broad smile and the words, “Dude, you look so  _ good _ . I know I keep saying it, but you just... “ He stands up and gives Jensen a tight hug. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Jensen says with a small laugh. He returns the hug, then sets about making breakfast. “I thought you’d be jet lagged.” 

“Ehh, I’ve been traveling so much lately, it doesn’t register much.” Naman leans against a countertop, his posture relaxed, arms open. “So today’s your big day, huh?” 

Peering into the fridge, Jensen takes out a container of rice and a container of salmon. He then fills a bowl with water and adds salt to it, and after checking two cupboards, finds a packet of dried seaweed. “I always tell folks I don’t need a party.”

Naman huffs and rolls his eyes. “When are you gonna learn to graciously accept the good things that come to you?” 

“Possibly never.”

“No one likes a smart ass.”

“Then get out of my kitchen.”

“First of all, hell no. Second of all, what are you making?” 

Jensen pops off the tops to each container and motions for Naman to take a look. “They’re called omusubi gonbei, or onigiri.” 

Scooting closer, Naman watches as Jensen shapes the first rice ball with his hands. He adds a spoonful of salmon as filling and adds a sliver of seaweed on the outside before pressing it all into a triangular shape. Without hurry, Jensen adds a few more ingredients into every other one--a few dashes of hot sauce, a few slivers of ginger, a bit of green onion. He offers for Naman to do one, but Naman declines in favor of continuing to watch. 

There’s a trick to the movement of hands in making onigiri so that the sticky rice doesn’t clump up. The salt water helps, but it’s all in the hands. For three of them, he adds a few sesame seeds on the outside. 

Fatigue seeps into Jensen as he shapes the last one. He passes the final one over to Naman, who eats it as if it Jensen had made a four course meal. In between compliments, and as he washes his hands, Jensen explains that at the start of every week he makes the rice and some kind of filling to use throughout the week. On mornings when he doesn’t feel like making anything, it only takes a few minutes to make some onigiri. When he feels like making the effort, he’ll brush the finished onigiri with soy sauce and grill them until the rice gets crispy. 

Ms. Theda taught him how to make onigiri, because Ms. Yumi taught her and every adult should know how to make them.

Naman steers Jensen to the kitchen table and sits him down. 

“How many of these can I have?” he asks, already on his second, seated next to Jensen. “I don’t wanna say I’d leave Jared to starve, but I’m going to leave him to starve.”

Jensen takes a sip of the coffee Naman poured for him and picks up an onigiri. “Don’t worry about him, he knows the rules--first come, first serve.” 

“I could eat these forever.”

“Don’t say that just yet,” Jensen laughs. “You’re gonna have Ma’s cooking tonight and these are gonna seem like McDonald’s in comparison.”

A smile tugs at Naman’s mouth. He sits back in his chair, one arm hooked over the back. “I can enjoy both things, you know.”

“I don’t want to go to New York.” Fuck. He should have stuffed his onigiri into his mouth. 

“I figured,” Naman says with a shrug. “So don’t.”

“Jared wants me to.”

“And I want to hire you as my personal onigiri-chef, hell, my personal chef in general. But we don’t always get what we want.” 

After he takes a deep breath, Jensen sets down his half-eaten onigiri. He leans forward in his chair, elbows on his thighs, and clasps his hands together. “Yeah.” 

He means to say more, but the rest gets stuck in his head, turning over and over. 

Eventually, Jensen eeks out a few more words. “...I kind of. Maybe. Want to try.”

His hands are still a little sticky from handling the rice. His technique isn’t perfect. Yet. 

“I want you to come with us,” Naman adds, his voice soft. “But you know, my reasons are different. Sure, you’d be helpful for Jared to record his album. I mean, you are fifty percent of the new stuff, don’t act like you aren’t because you are. But I want you to come with us because I wanna hang out on the block. Eat some pizza. Show you what’s different. Introduce you to a few folks I think you’d vibe with.” He pauses, grabs another onigiri, and looks at it for a moment before breaking out into a wide smile. 

“What?” 

Naman shakes his head, laughs, and shrugs. “I think I just want to show off my friend Jensen. And... I have a feeling Jared wants to do the same.”

Heat radiates across Jensen’s face. 

Standing up, Naman stretches. He pats Jensen’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. It’s time for his morning run, which he does without fail no matter where in the world work takes him. “God damn, you look good. Have I said that yet?” 

“What if I don’t live up to the hype, Nam?” 

Before Naman steps out of the kitchen, he answers. 

“Baby, you  _ are  _ the hype.” 


	32. Chapter 32

Jensen never deleted the time and temperature of Dallas from his phone. Not even after he replaced and upgraded it two years ago. 

New York wasn’t so lucky. 

He slips into his room, mindful not to disturb Jared, and retrieves his notebook from its faithful place on his nightstand. Dali bought him this particular notebook. It was last year’s Christmas present and more than half the pages contain Jensen’s scrawl. 

As he flips through to a new page, a few post it notes flutter. He sits outside, on the patio, despite the heat and humidity. 

Songwriting emerged as a coping mechanism somewhere around the eighth grade. If he couldn’t play the kind of music he wanted to play, then he would secretly write it and hold a private concert in his head. And of course, every private concert had at least two or three thousand people in attendance, all of them screaming his name, begging for more. 

A tense smile pulls at Jensen’s mouth. He taps his pen against the blank page. 

Atmospheric. Evocative. Introspective. 

Pitch. Loudness. Timbre. Duration. 

The tip of Jensen’s pen meets the smooth surface of paper with alarming ease. He writes down four going on five lines of song before switching to sheet music. The opening phrase writes itself, produced by desire, intuition, and optimism. Mistakes happen. He ignores any negativity that taps at his mind like a hungry crow. Not now. He has to get this down. 

Beneath the surface elegance of the constructed phrase, Jensen plants the hints of stark, emotional depth. 

Full expression. 

Structural logic.

Subtle differences in timbre used to reinforce structures of pitch and rhythm. 

His pen scratches against the page and glides over a particularly difficult section. Eyes closed, he blocks out the sounds of birds in the trees and neighbors starting their morning routines. That’s easy enough to do. Over the years, he’s made the backyard and garden a more private, intimate area. 

Music must be more than a product.

It needs to live and breathe along with both the musician and the audience. Jensen modifies the integration and structure of this section, uneasy with his work at first, but then more and more confident that yes--this is how it should sound. This is how this piece needs to exist outside of his head. Expressive with an inverted form, then reinforced in parallel thirds. A sense of yearning plays through from a touch of dissonance, which begs resolution. 

Emotional undulations.

New York. Dallas. The island. 

Dispatch. Farm. Home.

Whatever he could get his hands on. Isolation. Unconditional acceptance.

Fuck. C minor broken chord in the left-- _ of course. _ This piece demands agency, yet bends to the melody. His pen achieves a strong sense of coherence and purpose. 

Shit he never had in either New York or Dallas. 

He’s moved forward. Moved beyond all of that. He doesn’t need fame, attention, or even outright recognition for what he does. All he asks for is credit. The rest, everyone can divvy up among themselves.

He can hike five miles through the hills and valleys of the island. What he lacks in speed he makes up for in endurance. Nope, not that note. God dammit. 

If he’s so confident about himself--his appearance, his physical abilities, his capabilities--why the hell is he still second guessing shit?  What makes self doubt so fucking ravenous? Has it been here all along, just waiting to surface? Probably. He’s spent so much time trying to keep his composure, it didn’t occur to him to question or examine the shit shoved down.

Face it.

Writing songs and composing music isn’t professional help.

_ Double dip. Back flip. Everybody’s brain sick.  _ The paper greedily absorbs every drop of ink, regardless of whether or not these words make any sense.  _ Lockjaw. Jigsaw. Picking at a purple vein.  _ Maybe some of them make sense.  _ Red vines rum and Coke. Chewing on a bag of rocks. Choking on a power saw. Pig feet cooking on the concrete. Locomotive. Pull over. Lucky number going down. I like you Jesus but I love the dope. _

_ It keeps me humming. _

_ I think it’s working. _

“I miss it,” Jensen blurts out and freezes. He stares at the words bled from his pen. His eyes dart around to identify any potential witnesses to the Dr. Phil shit he’s about to do. Say it. Say it outloud. Get it out of his system. Out of his head. What, specifically, does he miss? Cough it up. So what if he’s alone. He should be able to say this to himself of all god damn people.  _ Lucky number going down. Take a hit. Chew. Spit. Enjoy the show.  _

Red flags set up shop in his head, followed by the sound of an alarm to turn back, danger, danger Jensen Ackles. 

Someone knocks at the sliding door from the kitchen. 

Jensen flinches, turns, and sees Jared tapping at the glass, holding up a sign that says, “COFFEE? <3”

Harder than he means to, Jensen slams his notebook shut. Faster than he means to, he stands up. 

More desperate than he means to, he wrenches the door open and pulls Jared in for a kiss--fierce, rough, perfectly executed. Raw. Deep. All strawberry lip balm and Kona black coffee. Jared kisses him back full force. Like the atomic blast of a full orchestra.

Somewhere in between a breath and a gasp, Jensen notices Jared’s choice in clothing: one of Jensen’s shirts--the one with the blue and white floral pattern--and nothing else. 

The mechanics of his heart change course. Squeeze. Ache. Jump. 

Straightforward rhythmic patterns and repetitions makes music more accessible. Listeners can grasp onto melodies from songs like, “We Will Rock You” and “Bohemian Rhapsody,” quickly and easily.

Jensen understands this. He understands music.

His own emotions--not so much.

“I miss New York,” he says, his tone and choice of words a complete, inelegant mess. He stands with his hands on Jared’s shoulders, directly looking at him. Even though his voice sounds like a sad, busted horn, words bubble up and he doesn’t stand in their way. “I miss it but I’m afraid to go back.”

Are his words a symphony orchestra? A wind quintet? A rock band? A jazz trio? 

A breeze drifts past, paying a brief visit to the backyard. It convinces the wind chimes out in the garden to provide some much needed sound aside from Jensen’s heart beating at a hundred miles an hour. Strands of Jared’s chestnut hair flutter as the breeze reaches them on the patio. 

Jared offers up a small smile and looks at Jensen with an understanding that his words are a symphony orchestra, a wind quintet, a rock band, and a jazz trio all at once. 

“I get that. But we’ll face it head on,” Jared answers. He places his hands on Jensen’s chest, fingers splayed. For a second, he bites down on his lip. “You know. Both of us. Together.” 

The Lilac Collection at the New York Botanical Garden. 

Little Italy off of 187th. 

Fried cheese and mangu at 188 Cuchifritos right across from the fish market and around the corner from The Paradise Theater. Coquito and gossip from Mr. Ortiz at his usual spot in Poe Park. The Nano Cafe for dominos and a quick tarot reading. Crotona Park for hip-hop. Puerto Rican moonshine on 133rd. Fresh, creamy coconut ice cream on a summer day without air conditioning, with sandaled feet on the sidewalk and graffiti in the backdrop, listening to the Colettas argue in Italian.

Jensen hauls Jared close.

There’s New York--pressed against him, solid and firm. New York kisses like the fireworks at the Ferry Point. Hot. Impressive. Maybe, probably, kind of illegal. 

Jared bites down on Jensen’s bottom lip and tugs with just the right amount of pressure and force. He hums a tune and sends vibrations of pleasure down Jensen’s spine. 

“Put your hands all over me,” Jared murmurs, gently bumping their noses together. “Put your mouth all over me.” 

Ain’t that something.

Wait.

That  _ is _ something. He should write it down. Where’d he put--forget it. If it’s meant to be, he’ll remember it later. 

Whatever Jared wants, Jared gets. At this moment, that works for Jensen. 

He isn’t exactly gentle about it. But the sound Jared makes when Jensen pushes him up onto the patio table--god damn mellifluous. Ineffable. Tortuous. And the sight of Jared, with his legs spread, his cock peeking out from underneath Jensen’s shirt, and his hair curling from the humidity--obscenely lovely.

Sucking him off is a ballad. Slow. Passionate. Long slurps and emotive moans. Jensen improvises with his tongue, altering the pressure applied to the tip of Jared’s cock. He works Jared, inch by inch, spit-slick, lips in a tight seal. Jared rocks back and forth, one hand behind him for support and the other in Jensen’s hair. Humidity. Sweat. Spit. Pop. Jensen takes his mouth off Jared for a few delirious seconds before diving back in. He licks up the entire heavy length, circles his tongue underneath the sensitive crown, then swallows Jared until the leaking tip presses against the back of his throat. 

“Holy fuck,” Jared gasps and arches up. “Fuck, that’s…” 

Bartow Station, a hundred feet from Shore Road, abandoned since the thirties. Lonely, secluded, covered in graffiti and cobwebs. Still one of the most beautiful places in the Bronx. 

Van Cortlandt Park monoliths, more relics from another forgotten railroad. Exit the Metro, head East, take the Old Putnam Trail north, climb over brush, bush, and saplings. Sit with the ruins, still one of the most beautiful places in the Bronx.

Jared comes in Jensen’s mouth. 

Salty. Sweet. Messy.

Like a Banana Honey Shake from The Black Whale on City Island. 

Jensen licks and sucks Jared clean, until Jared tugs at his hair and politely asks to be fucked.

Time snaps forward. The music in Jensen’s head switches to something charged, harmonically complex, unceasing and soaring. With Jared standing, their bodies chest to back, they lean over the patio table like the curve of paired tied notes.

He pushes into Jared--steady, going deep. Slick over his cock causes an audible squelch. Jensen groans into Jared’s shoulder blade. He picks up the lush scent of himself on Jared--from his shirt, to his bed, to his home. 

An insatiable ache commands the movement of Jensen’s hips. It isn’t enough to work his cock in and out of Jared. Even with every drag of friction over his cock and the tentative press of his knot against Jared’s pink, wet hole, Jensen craves more. He angles his hips and searches for a rhythm. He’ll know it when he hears it shout from Jared’s mouth. 

“Fuck it, fuck it,” Jared cries out. He reaches back and grabs a handful of Jensen’s hair. “Don’t stop, oh fuck, oh, holy shit!” A jolt. A shudder. A clench of his ass. “There! Right--oh my god--right there!” 

Jensen pounds his knot against the seemingly impossible ring of muscle and skin his instinct thirsts for. He lets Jared feel the weight of it, the heft, the size, the lustful dimensions. Shake. Shift. Slide. Stretch. Slick builds and Jensen’s cock rings it out of Jared so that it drips down Jared’s thighs, sticky, with a sheen. 

They are all parts frantic, smoldering, bubbling, and boiling.

In one grinding push, Jensen knots Jared. He pulls back, to the edge of the knot, thrusts back in, then repeats it, loudly fucking Jared open until Jared begs for Jensen to keep it in. 

Lyrics to song soak through Jensen’s mind and into his fingertips. He presses against Jared; any hesitation of easing his weight against Jared vanishes. Jared groans, leans into Jensen, and tilts his hips in such a way to make both of them gasp.

Stitched together. 

Jensen noses Jared’s right shoulder. 

“Yes,” Jared whimpers. “Do it.” 

Tangled. 

Jensen bites down on Jared’s bare skin. He comes without care for rhythm, tempo, or beat. Pleasure pins his mind to the present--focused and entirely in the moment. Deep. Full. Overwhelming.

Another breeze skims past. The wind chimes balance out the harsh and ragged panting on the patio. Despite the heat, humidity, sticky mess, and sore muscles, neither one of them hurries in their movements.

Jared hums something as he leads Jensen back into the house. 

Nothing sounds so good as when Jared murmurs, “E bottei coa que sesa che-segno irog.” 

It’s like hearing music for the first time.

 


	33. Chapter 33

“Listen to this part.”

“Okay?”

“Ugh, isn’t it just… Jensen!”

“What? I’m paying attention.”

“Your hands are all up on my ass.”

“So? I can still pay attention.”

“How come you always get to play grab ass, but when I try to hold onto that sweet, sweet booty I get the cold shoulder?”

“Please don’t call it that.”

“Too late. I wanna thank your mother for a butt like that.”

“What have I done to deserve this?”

“I wish I could play piano like that.”

“You can.”

“No,  _ you _ can. We can’t all be incredibly talented and gorgeous like you, Jensen. Some of us have been dealt a horribly hideous and untalented fate. Doomed for all time to suffer in mediocrity.”

“...I just like to play music.”

“And lie in bed, groping my ass.” 

“Well, that too.” 

“While your hands are busy, you wanna share with the class a little bit of backstory? Personal history? You know, for narrative effect.”

“Like? You want my recipe for Bun Bo Hue?” 

“I don’t know what that is, but I want you to make it for me right the fuck now.”

“I self medicated.”

“...yeah?”

“It was easy. It felt good. Until it didn’t.”

“Yeah.”

“Jared.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m not gonna lay on some sad Lifetime movie crap about my issues with substance abuse.”

“I’m not expecting you to.”

“Okay.”

“What about HBO though?”

“You’re impossible.”

“Made you smile! I’m off the hook!”

“You sure this mark doesn’t hurt?”

“On my shoulder? No. It doesn’t hurt. I like it. It’s like my own tattoo.”

“Hmm.”

“Maybe I’ll mark you next time.”

“Would you?”

“Fuck yes.”

“My mother would have a fit if she knew.”

“What? Why?”

“I have five brothers.”

“What the fuck, you do? Also, your poor mother.”

“All of us are alphas.”

“Was she going for some kind of record? My mom had me and decided that was it. She likes to say I took ten years off her life.”

“I can see it.”

“Whatever.”

“Spoken like a true Valley girl.”

“I did not grow up in the Valley. I split my time between LA and New York as all civilized people do.”

“Anyway…”

“Are you the oldest?”

“Yep.”

“Holy shit. So much makes sense about you now. Okay, so what happened? Do you still talk to your brothers? Your mom?”

“I haven’t talked to them in… four years.”

“Okay, damn.”

“I wasn’t alpha enough.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just. Wasn’t alpha enough. You know.”

“That’s fucking bullshit. Fucked up. Ridiculously fucked up.”

“Yeah. Just a bit.”

“Do you need me to tell you how alpha you are to me?”

“No--no. That’s… thank you. But it’s okay.”

“Okay?”

“I like who I am.”

“Well, would you look at that.”

“Hmm?”

“I happen to like who you are too.”

“That was cheesy.”

“This place has made me cheesy.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now get up. Up! I’m supposed to have you at Ma’s by… fifteen minutes ago.”


	34. Chapter 34

Queen went all out for the launch party of their “Jazz” album.

Held at the New Orleans’ Fairmont Hotel in 1978, they hired nude waiters and waitresses, a man whose sole job it was to bite the heads off live chickens, and a pit filled with liver so naked models could wrestle for the title of champion.

Jensen will be happy if someone brings a pinata to the party.

He would also be happy to spend the rest of the next few days in bed.

Although, judging by the smell of the braised chicken and tostones Mrs. Durand brought, there’s nowhere else on the entire planet with better food than Ma’s backyard at this exact moment.

Mr. and Mrs. Li brought two large trays of pork slices, tender beef with onions, roasted vegetables, and crispy salt and pepper fish. Not to be outdone, Mr. Yeun arrives with awe-inspiring amounts of japchae, sweet and spicy potsticker salad, fried chicken, kimchi, buchujeon, and marinated short ribs.

Plate after plate after tray after tray of food takes up three buffet tables.

Ms. Yumi embraces Jensen, then shoos him away while she helps a few other ladies organize the food. Roberta offers her a pink hibiscus for her hair, which she accepts and shows off.

Fried yucca. Sancocho. Mangu. Ropa vieja. Rice noodles with sweet basil leaves, onions, bell peppers, and green beans. Oysters. Shrimp tossed in a spicy, sticky, sweet sauce. Gua bao. Red snapper. Lobster on the grill with a squeeze of lime, meant to be served with pikliz.

Folks talk without reservation. They laugh. Pour drinks. Insist on sharing food.

“Era ques avos!”

“Tu, di pasmet la delle.”

“Jaccivo penexis unem.”

“Cierta quis de doment aionti?”

“No al exisim, al exisim.”

LeJan coordinates setting up the band. Tito brought his accordion. Danilo dragged out his guitarron--the gigantic bass still in good shape. A few of the kids beg him to play something and he snaps at them that they should be somewhere offering to help their mothers and grandmothers. Ma yells at him from across the yard that the children have done more to help out in the past two hours than he has in the past five years.

One by one, folks visit with Jensen.

LiChaun presents him with a jarana--a present from the teenagers. She tunes it for him, hands it over, and squeals when he plays a Lady Gaga song.

Garlands of flowers hang from any and every available surface. Plumeria. Ginger. Heliconia. Orchids.

Dali shows up with Diego in one hand and her grilling tools in the other. She’s about to show everyone how a Black woman from the Bronx barbeques for three hundred people.

Div escapes Ma’s strict kitchen dictatorship to steal a kiss from Dali and to both throw herself at Jensen and beg him to please, please, please tell Ma that they are not trying to feed three thousand people.

“Where’s Jared?” Dali looks around in search of him. “Was he mauled by Miss Eun?”

“She’s ninety-two,” Div quips. “She ain’t gonna maul anyone.”

“That’s what she wants you to think, my love. Don’t worry. I will protect you.”

“Gee, my hero.”

“He’s not with fish face, is he?”

Jensen laughs. “Fish face?”

“Well,” Dali says with a shrug, “there are kids around.”

“When we got here, he was waiting,” Jensen shares. He accepts a lime smoothie from Hana. “Looked like someone pissed in his Cheerios when Jared told him the news.”

Eyes wide, Div clings to Dali. “What news?! What!”

The village succeeds because of its residents. Jensen considers himself honored and privileged to count himself as one of them.

He won’t be gone for long.

Two weeks.

He’s going to spend the next three days telling himself that two weeks isn’t long at all.

Just as Jensen starts to explain his decision to Div and Dali, shouting cuts through every noise in the backyard, from Pigo’s barking to the bachata Felipe has playing off a boombox relic. Conversations halt. Fuck, even the meat on the grill stops sizzling.

“HE’S COMING BACK TO NEW YORK WITH US? ARE YOU INSANE?!”

Bald eagles in Montana heard that.

Greenwich Village. Hell’s Kitchen. The Lower East Side. Gramercy. Flatiron. Chelsea. The Meatpacking District. Jared enjoys saying that one. Midtown East. Midtown West. NoHo. SoHo. TriBeCa. The Upper East Side. The Upper West Side. The West Village.

A slice of cheese pizza served on a paper plate at that one pizzeria on Westchester.

Queen recorded some of their most profoundly brilliant albums while secluded in Montreux.

They captured a pure theatrical element to rock music, paired with impeccable vocal range, incredible intonation, and unchallenged versatility. Some gospel. Opera. Disco. Hard rock. Soft rock. Glam rock. Ballads. Speed metal. Rockabilly.

It was never just Freddie.

Just like it’s never been just Jensen.

And he doesn’t need seclusion.

“YOU’RE GONNA PICK THAT ASSHOLE OVER ME? WE’RE THROUGH, JARED. THROW AWAY YOUR CAREER, YOU’RE NOTHING TO ME. HOW ARE YOU GONNA TELL CHER ABOUT THIS LOSER? ABOUT YOUR NEW FUCK BOY’S LITTLE PROBLEM HE USED TO HAVE! THAT’S RIGHT. HEY, IS YOUR NOSE CLEAN, JE--”

Ma beats Dali to the punch. Literally.

She socks Lindy square in the jaw with a killer right hook. And before Lindy can even get up from the ground, Roberta knocks his ass down and orders him to stay down until told otherwise. He hits the grass with a satisfying thump.

Naman arrives, fashionably late from taking calls most of the morning and afternoon, just in time to witness some of the oldest village residents forming a solid, intimidating circle around Lindy.

“I’m so glad I didn’t miss ass kicking time,” Naman whoops. “Do I have perfect timing or do I have perfect timing? You think they’ll let me have a piece of him?”

“You’re all pathetic,” Lindy shouts, holding his nose because god damn, Ms. Yumi can aim. “I…”

Jared walks away from the circle.

And towards Jensen.

He’s wearing one of Jensen’s shirts, pinned so that it doesn’t hang off him, paired with a pair of denim shorts that could cause traffic in a one stoplight town.

Music is unbridled imagination. It should always be authentic.

Jensen should write that down. Eventually. It can wait.

Div punches Jared in the arm before rushing off to join Dali and the rest of the village in Lindy’s sudden departure. No one can miss him if he doesn’t leave.

Jared stands in front of Jensen.

He pulls a piece of paper out of the shirt’s left front pocket and hands it over.

“Read it later,” Jared says, and takes Jensen’s hand in his own. “Let’s go see a man about a guitar.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slight change to lindy's dialogue at the end. :)


	35. Epilogue

 

Later turns out to be four in the morning, after hours and hours of partying and dancing and singing and laughing and talking about the texture of music and the importance of composition.

The piece of paper turns out to be the receipt for a Gibson J-200.

With a note on the back.

“I love you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See y'all in the next installment! <3
> 
> Comments are love!


	36. The Tunes: Fic Soundtrack

**Slipped Inside Your Left Front Pocket Soundtrack**

 

  * Champagne Corolla by Justin Townes Earle
  * Lost in Japan by Shawn Mendes
  * Don’t Look Back in Anger as covered by Maiya Sykes (Scott Bradlee’s Postmodern Jukebox)
  * In My Blood by Shawn Mendes
  * Miles Runs the Voodoo Down by Miles Davis
  * What Side of Love (acoustic version) by Parachute
  * The fish song is a poem by Jenny Johnson from _In Full Velvet_
  * Voodoo Child by Jimi Hendrix
  * Forget You by CeeLo Green
  * I Want to Break Free by Queen
  * Fat Man by Beth Hart



 

  * **Additional Inspiration From:**

    * There’s Nothing Holdin’ Me Back by Shawn Mendes and Make Me Feel by Janelle Monae for Chapter 6 smut
    * Sew by Malika Tirolien, Chapter 24
    * The Very Last Day by Parker Millsap
    * Slow Hands by Niall Horan

**Print Material:**

_Comparing Notes_ by Adam Ockelford

_I Hope My Voice Doesn’t Skip_ by Alicia Cook

_How to Listen to Jazz_ by Ted Gioia




 

 


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